“Are you sure about this?” Margot peeked into the first nesting box, where three eggs sat in the hay.
“Yes. You just reach in, take the eggs, and put them in your basket.” I’d thought gathering eggs might be an easy place for her to start, but Christ Almighty, I was beginning to wonder if even that was too much for her. She was such a city girl—although she did look cute in her tight jeans and little plaid shirt, and I liked the way she wore her hair in one long braid down her back. Her boots were hilarious, though—some sort of equestrian riding boots that looked like they belonged in a movie about a rich girl who has her own show pony. At least she hadn’t put makeup on.
But believe it or not, she had put on the pearl necklace.
It was killing me.
“Come on,” I prodded, annoyed more with myself than her. “Get the eggs, we have work to do.”
“Won’t they get mad?” She looked around the coop, nervously eyeing the hens about our feet.
“No. They’re used to it.”
“OK.” She reached in and took out two eggs, then laid them gently in the basket. “I did it!” she said, smiling proudly.
I nearly smiled back before I caught myself. “Good job. Now keep going. Or we’re going to be here all day.”
She took the third one out, gingerly placed it next to the others and studied them. “So do the brown chickens lay the brown eggs and the white ones the white eggs?”
“No. You can tell what color eggs a chicken will lay by the color of her ears.”
Her eyes bugged. “No way!”
“Yes. Now come on, work faster. Like this.” I reached into the next box, quickly pulled three eggs out with one hand, put them in the basket, and moved on to another.
“Wow, you’re really good at this.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice. Now you do the next one.”
She moved in front of me, bent over, and looked into the box. “There’s somebody in there.”
“So reach beneath her and take the eggs.” I struggled to keep my eyes off her ass.
“I don’t think I should. She’s giving me the evil eye.”
“Jesus Christ. Move, I’ll do the rest.” I took her by the waist and swung her to the side to get her out of my way, but once I had my hands on her, I didn’t want to let go.
And I’m a fucking weak-willed asshole, so I didn’t.
I left them there a couple seconds too long.
“Jack?” She looked at me over her shoulder, her expression confused.
I dropped my hands.
What the fuck are you doing?
“Just give me the basket,” I ordered roughly, yanking it from her hand.
She turned around. “Did I do something wrong?”
“No.” I angled away from her and started grabbing the remaining eggs, angry with myself.
This was a bad idea.
It was a long day.
As I’d suspected, Margot was clueless about everything and had a thousand ridiculous questions.
“So you don’t milk a male cow?”
“Why do you need an electric fence?”
“How big is an acre?”
“Are those goats?”
“What’s a CSA?”
“Why do you have to rotate crops?”
“Isn’t it weird to butcher an animal you spent all that time raising? Do you ever want to keep the cute ones?”
“So chickens lay eggs from their butts?”
I did my best to answer her questions, figuring the more she realized she didn’t know, the more likely it would be that she might decide she couldn’t help. But she learned fast, and by late afternoon, her questions grew more thoughtful, her hands steadier, her pace quicker. I found myself admiring her curiosity about the farm, her willingness to tackle any job I gave her, and the fact that she never once complained about the sun or the heat or the smell or the dirt lodged under her fingernails and caked on her fancy boots.
But the worst thing was the way I kept wanting to touch her. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I’d done in the chicken coop, and I stopped myself a dozen times from doing it again. What the hell was my problem?
Finally, I had to admit that for the first time since Steph died, I was seriously attracted to a woman.
It was almost a relief.
I wasn’t happy about it, but logically, I knew it was just a biological urge and I shouldn’t be too hard on myself, especially since her presence here was temporary. And who wouldn’t be attracted to Margot? She was beautiful, smart, and kind. And aside from her ignorance about life outside the bubble she lived in, she was nice to be around. She could laugh at herself, tried again if she failed at something the first time, and was actually really good with the horses. I wondered if she’d had experience with them.
“Do you ride?” I asked her when we were in the barn at the end of the day.
“I had a horse growing up,” she said, stroking the neck of the mare I’d been concerned about yesterday.
“Of course you did. Rich girl.” I couldn’t resist giving that braid a tug. What I really wanted to do was wrap it around my fist. Yank her head back. Kiss her neck.