Abby’s laugh is throaty and delighted by my feigned reticence. “Pasta salad and panty discussions. Sounds like a wonderful afternoon.”
I close the door to my car once she’s settled in and whistle a tune as I walk around the back.
I think it’s going to be a fucking spectacular afternoon, even if I don’t get in her panties.
CHAPTER 5
Abby
“So, what’s your deal?” Kellen asks. He leans against the kitchen counter while I stir bow tie pasta boiling on his stove. I glance over my shoulder at him, and God, is he sexy.
He’s wearing khaki cargo shorts and a navy blue T-shirt that’s faded and soft looking with some military insignia on the left chest, a pair of flip-flops in a nod to the hot Pennsylvania summer day, and two days’ worth of facial scruff. I know it’s two days because he was clean-shaven day before yesterday when he brought Bubba into the clinic.
Long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankle, he holds a beer as he watches me with intense eyes.
I turn back to the boiling pot. “What more do you need to know about my personal crusade against Levi Hellman? You clearly know I’m willing to go to great lengths to save those dogs.”
My smile softens as I look over to where Bubba and Princess are lying on the cool tile near the fridge, both sound asleep. When we walked in a bit ago, Princess greeted both Kellen and me with more confidence, and I noticed her gait was more natural. I handed the bags to Kellen to put away while I gave her a quick exam. Her eyes are clearing up even after one day of antibiotic treatment.
“Not the dogs’ story,” he says, causing me to look back at him again. “Your story. What led you here from Kentucky?”
“Oh.” I chuckle because I tend to hyperfocus on my zeal to take Hellman down. “Let’s see… born and raised in Shelbyville, Kentucky, where my parents own a horse farm. Pretty much a normal upbringing but wanted to spread my wings, so I came to Pennsylvania for undergrad.”
“Racing horses?” he asks.
I shake my head. “American saddlebreds. At any rate, I went to veterinary school in Ohio—”
“Ohio State?” he guesses.
“The Ohio State,” I correct him to the proper way to refer to the school.
He snickers, and that tells me he knows the Big Ten well, its insistence as being known with the in front of its name. “But you didn’t go back to Kentucky.”
The timer on my phone chimes. Pasta’s done. I tap it quiet and turn off the burner. Kellen pushes off the counter, setting his beer down. Nudging me out of the way, he picks up the pot and takes it to the sink, pouring the hot water into the colander he’d set there earlier.
My heart catches because it’s exactly what my father would do for my mother when she cooked. Didn’t want her to lift a heavy pot or potentially scald herself with boiling water.
I always thought it romantic, and I hadn’t seen Kellen as that type. Brave and valiant, for sure, as witnessed when he stood up to Levi Hellman.
A sexy flirt, which very much appeals to me, because I’m a flirt, too, and I definitely like sexy men.
But this move was sweet and without calculation.
Yes… romantic.
“Kentucky?” he prods when I don’t answer. “How come you didn’t go back there to practice, especially since your family has a horse farm?”
“Lots of reasons.” I pick up the beer he’d opened for me and take a sip. “First, I didn’t want to practice equine care, and my parents already employ a very good veterinarian.”
“Whoa, wait,” Kellen says, setting the empty pot on the counter while steam from the pasta billows out of the sink. Turning to me, he asks, “Your family farm is big enough to employ a full-time vet?”
I smile wistfully as I think of Blackburn Farms. It’s no small operation. “It’s the largest saddlebred farm in Kentucky. Over a hundred acres with breeding and foaling barns, several indoor and outdoor training arenas, five separate housing quarters for staff, and our family’s very own ten-thousand-square-foot colonial house that my great-great-great-grandfather built in 1892.”
“Holy shit,” he mutters and blinks wide-eyed a second before his gaze narrows. “But something in your voice… bitterness? Regret? Relief not to be there?”
I’m stunned he named every emotion I sometimes feel when I think of the farm. “Maybe a little of all,” I admit.
“Overbearing, controlling parents?” he guesses.
“Not really. No.”
“High expectations?”
A pang in my chest—anger and sadness. “Very high.”
Kellen appraises me, holding his bottle loosely by the neck. “Let me guess… the farm is a big business. Generational, a lot of heritage mixed in. It’s probably expected that every generation take their rightful place to help the business prosper. There were a lot of things expected of you, maybe from the time you were born. But you had other dreams. How am I doing so far?”