He walked inside of the enclosure, still not quite trusting this llama’s humor. It’d stopped biting at him, but there was still a off-putting staring thing, the occasional spit. Usually the thing didn’t spit while Dan was trying to feed it, though.
He pitchforked some new hay into the space. Possibly the grass in the newly opened enclosure would be enough food for one, but he still felt like making sure there was new hay each morning.
He pumped new water into the multiple buckets, placing them around the edge of the fence, all the while chattering along. He found the more he talked, the more the llama kept away from him, and despite wanting to grow one llama into a pack of llamas, the thing still unnerved him.
“Wonder if you’ll be nicer if I get you some friends.” He’d read that llamas were herd animals and liked company. The vet who’d come by to check her out had confirmed that. Dan still needed to work a few things out first, but he had a to-do list, some potential breeders, and everything.
He was not a one-trick pony. He could do more than hockey, and if he missed the skating and the thrill of competition, well…
Yeah, he didn’t know what to do about that well, so he finished up his chores and headed back to the house. If Mel was still asleep—and he kind of hoped she was—he would make her breakfast.
When he stepped into the house, he was met with silence. He paused for a few seconds to see if he heard any movement, but not a peep.
Pleased, he went to the kitchen and found the pan of eggs he’d forgotten all about last night. Pleased did not begin to cover it.
He wouldn’t wonder what had brought her here, what little thread of control had snapped in her.
Okay, so maybe he wondered a little bit, but it didn’t have to matter. Maybe she’d tell him. Maybe she wouldn’t.
She probably won’t.
He ignored that voice in his head. Maybe if he focused on this whole taking-care thing enough, she’d tell him. Maybe if he got really good at it…
What? What do you hope would come of that?
He wasn’t sure. A mix of unease and hopefulness centered in his gut. He wasn’t sure if the unease was caused by the hopefulness or if they were just dual feelings fighting for prominence.
Either way…he didn’t like it. Didn’t like conflict or indecision or any of it. He wasn’t a five-year-old kid anymore, making it too hard on his parents to stay together. He wasn’t a teenager avoiding his grandparents. He was an adult, and he was going to learn how to do this taking-care thing.
One step at a time.
He focused on washing out the skillet, making a new batch of scrambled eggs, making toast.
When he heard movement in the hallway, he didn’t bother to turn around. “Good morning,” he greeted, forcing himself to sound cheerful. Forcing himself to feel the cheer instead of the weirdness in his head.
“What time is it?” she asked through a yawn.
He glanced back at her, standing in the entrance of his kitchen, the hem of his T-shirt skimming the pale skin of her thighs. He liked her legs, the long, muscular length her sturdy work jeans never gave him a glimpse at.
“If I tell you that, you’re going to kill me.”
She looked around the kitchen, presumably for a clock that was set to the right time. She scowled when her perusal came up empty. “The time, Sharpe.”
“Eight thirty.”
“Eight…” She blinked like she’d never heard such a thing before, as if this was impossible, to wake up at eight thirty. “How could you let me—”
“Before you blow any important gaskets, I already fed and watered the llama, called the lumber company to make sure they had those extra few things we needed—which they’ll have ready for us around noon—and”—with a grand flourish, he presented the skillet of eggs—“I made breakfast. After I threw away the eggs you made me forget about last night and cleaned this pan, since I only have one.”
The shock on her face didn’t dissipate, though some of the irritation did. She looked at the eggs, then back at him. “No one…” She cleared her throat. “Well, anyway, thank you, I guess.”
“You could rephrase that so there’s no ‘I guess.’” He grinned at her before scooping the eggs onto a plate. The toaster popped and he slid the piece of bread onto her plate. “I have peanut butter or…well, I have peanut butter.”
“I can—”
“Sit down and tell me what you want on your toast. I’m waiting on you.”
“Why are you waiting on me?”
“I’ve never done it before. Nice change of pace.” And it was. Probably because she was so damn baffled by it, and probably because he’d felt ineffectual and useless since he’d come here. Well, scratch that, since he’d screwed The Game—so being effectual and useful had its appeal.
“What do you want on your toast?”
“I guess peanut butter.”