Total pages in book: 59
Estimated words: 54852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54852 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 274(@200wpm)___ 219(@250wpm)___ 183(@300wpm)
“Should I come back in?” Oz called through the closed door.
“No, we don’t need them running out. You watch the store. I’ll catch the chickens.” I sounded way more confident than I felt, but seriously, how hard could this be?
“Poor birdies.” Mom made sympathetic noises as she tried again to scoop one up. It was not having any of her compassion and quickly scurried behind a stack of boxes.
Luckily, almost all of the stock in the storeroom was still in boxes, but that meant more places for the wily chickens to hide. I carefully shoved a box away from the source of a squawk, but the bird scurried farther into the corner.
“Harrison. You really should have dressed better for this.” She shook her head.
“I’m sorry, Mother. I wasn’t planning on chickens.” I brushed some dust off my pants. Yes, I’d gone more formal than I’d needed for a day of shelving, but we had more employee interviews in the afternoon, and no way was I going to look sloppy when dealing with prospective workers. And I liked looking nice. No shame in that.
Offering her a hand up from the floor, I assessed the situation. “You hold the box ready. I’m going to scoop that one up and drop it in.”
I pointed at the chicken who wasn’t hiding. It looked a little calmer than its frantic twin. Shouldn’t be too hard, especially if I moved slow at first and then scooped quickly. Similar to a lacrosse move I would’ve performed in my high school days. Back then, several coaches had praised my natural grace.
But today? At forty-two? Apparently I’d lost all my grace because my signature slow-and-then-sweep move ended with me in a heap and the chicken scampering away. Rinse and repeat until I was sweaty and one of my favorite custom shirts was dust streaked and clinging to my back.
“They’re so scared. I wonder if a treat would help?” My mother’s boundless sympathy did not seem to extend to my wardrobe.
“They’re chickens. Not puppies.”
“Most living things do better with incentives.” Mom gave me an arch look. “You should try it sometime. I wish you’d find someone to spoil—”
“Mother,” I warned her before she could continue this very old argument.
“Or even just spoil yourself. You need more indulgences.”
“This entire store is an indulgence.” My tone was more frustrated tease than true irritation. It was impossible to rouse anger for the most caring person I knew. We might disagree about what my life needed, but there was no one else I’d have left my city life for. “Okay. Enough playing around. Chickens, I’m coming for you.”
“Don’t scare them!” She moved aside so I could get farther into the stacks of boxes. Ignoring her, I crept up on the closest bird and, miracle of miracles, I managed to snatch it up as it squawked and carried on. However, right as I got a good grip on the bird, the door to the stockroom swung open.
“What’s going on here?”
Breathing hard, I needed a minute to process the newcomer in the doorway. Oz trailed behind the guy, his usual beefiness dwarfed by this burly specimen, who had to be Finn. Tall and clean-shaven, Finn was broad with acres of biceps and muscular forearms poking out of rolled-up, plaid shirtsleeves. Oz hadn’t been wrong at all. This was easily one of the hottest men I’d ever seen. He looked like something out of an antique farming ad, from his build right down to his dusty boots.
“Uh…” I made an inarticulate sound at odds with my years of education. And as I scraped my jaw off the floor, his deep scowl overshadowed his attractiveness. Hot chicken farmer was hot angry chicken farmer, and it was all directed at me.
“What are you doing to my chickens?”
Chapter Two
Finn
“I thought I said not to take the chickens out.”
Of course, the second after I reminded him of this, the rumpled librarian-looking guy let the chicken escape his grasp. It ran down the leg of his dress pants and fluttered off behind a stack of boxes.
Great. Two farm interns had been no-shows, I’d lost a coin flip to Rachel for mucking-out duty, we were behind in prep for two school visits tomorrow, and something was up with the ventilation in the greenhouse.
“Obviously, it wasn’t intentional.” Librarian Guy bristled.
He had to be Harrison Fletcher, and yeah, he hardly seemed like the type to take the chickens out to play, what with his fancy pants and white shirt that had undoubtedly started the day pristine and ironed. The dust smears on the cotton said he’d been having a time of it with the Ayam Cemani.
“These are some of the rarest chickens in the world,” I explained as I pulled some work gloves out of my back pocket. “I’d rather not lose any of them.”
“Trust me, I’d rather they not take up residence in my store. Need I remind you that I hardly asked for this mix-up?”