Page 30 of Till The Cows Come Home
“Please, Sage. Please give me a twirl.”
I tipped my head back, letting a laugh free before obeying, and by the time I’d gone full circle, Miles was standing in front of me.
“I didn’t mean to tease. This is adorable.” He chuckled.
“I used to be self conscious of my hips, but the more I farmed, the more useful they became. My mom custom made this to hold thirty-six eggs.”
“It’d be a crime to be ashamed of a body like yours, Sage. I’m glad you love it, because it’s gorgeous. Just like the rest of you.”
I could feel my face redden and, after a few moments lost for words, I looked up into his big green eyes.
“Ready?”
“Ready,” he hummed, tugging me out the door by one of the many little pockets at my waist.
We entered the barn, immediately parting ways to step into the familiarity that seemed to surface whenever we worked together. Miles loaded the mixer on the tractor while I began scraping away any leftover feed and debris that had accumulated throughout the night. By the time he pulled up behind me, I was dripping in sweat, but as I tore off my sweatshirt, I realized it may be a tall task to find a place to set it that wasn’t covered in a questionable substance.
“Here,” I heard from behind me, muffledby the sound of the approaching tractor, and as I spun, Miles was smirking with an outstretched hand. “I’ll put it in the tractor with me.”
I handed it off, but before I could deliver my thanks, he continued driving forward, slowly depositing feed in front of each hungry cow. I couldn’t help but smile at the gesture. Relationships had been few and far between for me, routinely failing because I had already fully committed myself to the farm. And when that sold, I busied myself to the point of burnout, sabotaging myself into solidarity.
The one thing that I always missed when they undoubtedly fizzled, leaving me alone to contemplate, was the domestication of it all. The small gestures to make your day run more smoothly, drinking coffee in the morning, cooking dinner. I missed the company. Spending time with Miles almost made me forget the reason I denied myself that comfort, luring me to dip my toes into companionship.
“You okay?” he called, rounding to deliver food to the stretch that I’d been too busy daydreaming to scrape.
I shot him a thumbs up, moving quickly to clear the way for him and in what seemed like record time, we wrapped up the feeding.
“That was probably the fastest I’ve ever done that,” he said, following me back to the house.
“It helps when you have help or in my parent’s case, child labor.” I chuckled, and as we walked out the front door, I excused myself to collect the eggs. The coop was off the side of the barn and as I rounded the edge, I saw Peaches’ head pop up.
“Hi, cutie,” I cooed.
I opened the nest boxes, mumbling along to Peaches as I went, and when my apron was full of the day’s yield, I crouched to say goodbye. The hen waddled over to me, the years of her life beginning to weigh heavy, and I couldn’t help the gratitude weighing on my chest. Although her mobilityhad decreased, her feathers glimmered and her beak was still bright.
“He treats you well, huh, old girl?”
She nudged my hand with her head, and I took that as a yes, rewarding her honesty with a few scratches before heading to the house.
After unloading the eggs onto the counter, I paused to wash my hands, and as soon as I entered the kitchen, an audible groan escaped me as the smell of coffee permeated the house. When I settled back at my spot at the dining room table, I was pleasantly surprised to see a mug already waiting, topped with whipped cream. And while I waited for Miles to join me, I took a sip, closing my eyes to appreciate the indulgence skating across my tongue.
“Good?” I heard from behind my closed lids.
“You mixed hot chocolate into my coffee.”
“I did.”
Although I hadn’t opened my eyes, I could hear the smile trailing across his lips at his success.
“It’s my favorite,” I hummed, opening them to confirm that Miles did, in fact, wear a smirk.
“I’m assuming you often eat while you work? Half of these documents have this red stuff on them, and I’m praying it’s not blood.”
He touched the corner of one of the inflicted papers. “That would be tomato sauce. Pasta is easy, so it frequents the weekly meal rotation more than I’d like to admit.”
“You are a sorry excuse of a bachelor, Mr. Carver.”
“So I’ve been told.” He chuckled. “Shall we get started?”
