Finn nods and pops the trunk on the rental. It made sense that he flew and didn’t drive. It’s a long way from New York to Topeka.
I turn and head back to the barn since I have chores to do that will take me at least a couple of hours to finish—the usual chores like feeding, watering, rehabbing, brushing, cleaning, and health checks.
I make sure I don’t get a glimpse of Finn’s backside as he turns because it doesn’t matter. His front side doesn’t matter either, for that matter. Because I’m not going to let myself be attracted to him. My nipples are just doing something strange. It’s suddenly becoming one of those pointy sharp objects. They’ve never reacted so quickly this way before. And um, my thighs and crotch region are tingling, but maybe it’s because—well—I guess my underwear is too tight, even if they’re old. And cotton—not tight at all. Maybe they’re just responding to my hardening nipples. That’s all it is. End of story. Not that there’s a story to begin with.
I was paid to let Finn stay here for six months because his grandfather wanted him to have a different experience and maybe learn that there’s more to life than just work, work, work, and more work. And even more work. It was basically Henry’s last wish, and I’m going to honor it. Henry supported me over the years. He really believed in me and what I do here. He had this huge heart that I’m sorry Finn didn’t get to experience. Henry himself told me that the last time we talked, so I’m not making wild assumptions here.
So. Yes.
Zero attraction, six months of action. But no, not in the attraction department. I meant all the other departments like compassion, experience, and learning about the farm, the animals, and the sanctuary—absolutely nothing else.
I give a little pep-talk to my misbehaving, tingling nipples and lady bits before I go back to mucking out Harold the donkey’s stall. Since most of the animals are outside right now, enjoying the beautiful day while I clean, I hum softly to myself instead of starting up a conversation.
I’m sure of one thing when it comes to Finn. Talking to him is going to be a heck of a lot harder than talking to the animals.
CHAPTER 3
Finn
Damn it.
That’s about all I have to say after I’ve inspected the second floor of the house. I might as well have gone with the medieval prison because it would have been less painful. The rooms are small. One I can make do for an office since there’s already an ancient oak library desk in there, while the other has an old school double bed with a white wrought iron headboard and footboard. If I were into collecting antiques and shabby chic farmhouse décor, this would be paradise. I like antiques, but not this kind of stuff—not the beat-up old dresser and nightstand that both don’t match, and not the sagging bedframe where when I say old school, I mean it is the kind of odd size which gets tossed because there is never a mattress around to fit it. Well, except this has the accompanying mattress—from another century, no doubt. It probably has springs that squeal with every movement.
The farmhouse is very farmhouse-y. The bathroom that is ‘mine’ comes with a white sink attached to the wall, a pink toilet, and a claw foot bathtub with no shower part attached. I’m not sure what the attraction is for tubs. If a person wants to get clean, soaking in filth isn’t going to do it.
I poked around the main floor for a few minutes before I went upstairs since I gathered that I’m supposed to share the kitchen and living room. To say they’re both very outdated is doing them a favor. The kitchen came complete with nasty brown cupboards, a stainless steel sink with rust (how is it even possible?), radiators, a battered kitchen table, and a fridge so old that it probably holds ice blocks. The living room was worse, with outdated floral couches and heavy bookshelves filling the space. At least the house doesn’t have shag carpet anywhere, though it has beat-up old floorboards. It’s basically a significant kindness to call the place one big, ducking mess. Literally. Because there is stuff everywhere.
Side note—my phone’s autocorrect always changes my swear words into ducking instead of, well, the obvious, so I tend to roll with that now. Everyone I know hates swearing, so I shy away from it. I got so well trained that I started doing it internally as well.
I’m probably going to die here, and Becki Wilkinson will stuff my body under the floorboards.
Or use me as animal feed.
It’s a terrible and depressing thought.
I already dropped my office stuff in the room with the desk. Now, I’m staring down the ancient, tallboy dresser, trying to figure out if any of the clothes I brought will survive the mothy, mousy destruction that is sure to lie within those barren wood drawers.