“I didn’t name him. I got him from a shelter in Topeka, where he was surrendered there in rough shape. I often get calls from shelters because they’re over capacity most of the time, and a lot of the animals there are in terrible shape and don’t stand a chance. He had an hour before he was going to be euthanized, and of course, I said I would take him. He was six years old and already had a name, so I didn’t think it was appropriate to change it.”
“His owner or owners must have been blind then.”
“Anyway…” I let go of Little Missy’s collar and straighten up. With me no longer holding him back, he runs straight around the back of the barn, barking eagerly. He always likes to greet guests, but then he’s off doing his own thing right after. I extend a hand in Finn’s direction. “I’m Becki Wilkinson.”
“I gathered that.” He makes no effort to shake my hand. Instead, his steely blue-grey eyes travel down to my dirty palm, and I swear he shudders internally.
I drop my hand back to my side, but I don’t rub it clean on my overalls, and I don’t offer it again. Whatevs. I’m not partial to handshakes anyway. Some of that perfect, city clean, Finn-style orderliness might rub off on me. Hah, kidding—kind of.
“What if I wasn’t?”
“What if you weren’t what?”
“What if I wasn’t Becki. I could just work here. I might have been anyone.”
“Doubtful. You knew I was coming, and you would have come out to greet me yourself. That’s most probably how you got your gold-digging meat hooks into my grandfather—flashed him a pretty smile full of dimples, gave him the old ‘woe is me’ tale, and bam. Hook, line, and sinker for as much money as it took to build that barn.”
I roll my eyes because Henry Batchbottom prepared me for this. “You’re right. I did build that barn with your grandfather’s money. It was mine to house you for six months, so I put it to good use.”
“What if I chose not to come?”
“Didn’t matter. It was mine to hold the room open for you whether you came or not, but your grandfather was sure you would.”
Finn’s admittedly handsome face—okay, more like beyond gorgeously chiseled into some godlike formation that all of humanity probably envies—sours like he just smelled cow manure.
“Yes, I’m sure you were sure I would come as well. How did you meet my grandfather, anyway?”
I stare straight into Finn’s face, trying not to notice how his hair is just the perfect length and amount of tousled. It’s a great color too—like rich, dark wood. I do have to crane my head way the heck up to the sky because dang it, Finn is really, really tall—something his grandfather didn’t tell me. I have seen pictures of Finn online since I was curious, and I do know my way around a computer, but they were few and far between. The Batchbottoms are rich, not famous.
“If you’re thinking it was through some really gross online dating site hooking up gold diggers with desperate old men, you’re wrong. Not only is that highly offensive and totally gross, but your grandfather would also flip you the bird for implying it.”
Finn’s lips pinch like he’s giving me some very reluctant props for having the lady balls to stand here and not only stand up to him but to speak my mind.
“There was no seduction involved. I met Henry when I sent an application to a company who makes custom-designed wheelchairs for pets.”
“Excuse me?”
“Pets. Wheelchairs. I’ve needed a few over the years. I designed most of them myself, but there was one I just couldn’t get right. Poor Mr. Happy Go Clucky kept falling out of it.”
“Mr. Happy Go Clucky? How cute that you name your chicken. And also buy it a wheelchair.”
“He’s a turkey, actually.”
“You name your turkeys?” Finn gives me a look like he thinks I’m crazy, but whatever.
“Of course. Everyone deserves a name, don’t you think?”
Finn sighs. “Save me the whole ‘don’t eat animals, it’s cruel, and you’re a real bastard if you do, you heartless piece of shit,’ speech. I’m not going to buy it, and I’m never going to stop eating meat.”
“Um…alright. I wasn’t going for a lecture. I was just saying I believe everyone deserves a name. That’s my personal opinion, and since you’re standing in a sanctuary that takes in abandoned and abused farm animals, I’d say if you want to give me a lecture about your right to eat meat, now isn’t really the time or place. For one, I have way too much to do. Two, you should get settled in. And three—”
“You were telling me about how you met my grandfather.”
“Right. I was. Before you rudely interrupted me about giving my animals names.”