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)
Fletcher was shorter than me by a couple of inches, but somehow, he managed to make me feel small. He had that rich-guy attitude that instantly reminded me of my ex, Astin. Nice clothes. Expensive shoes. And a similar superior tone that said he was too good for handling chickens.
“Stand back,” I ordered Fletcher, taking no small delight in being able to give Mr. Bigshot Bookseller an order.
I made short work of retrieving the pair of criminals and depositing them back in their box. Fletcher’s entitled demeanor would be a lot easier to ignore if he weren’t so damn attractive. He was a few years older than me, but not quite to silver-fox territory yet. Dark hair with a stylish short cut, a fair complexion, and hipster glasses balanced on his aristocratic nose only added to his appeal.
“Gloves. Should have thought of that.” Fletcher shook his head.
“That, and I had feed in my pocket.” I started to brush off my jeans before deciding the dust situation had reached hopeless levels.
“I told him a reward would work. Tape?” The older woman standing next to Fletcher offered me a roll of packing tape to fix the rip in the box. Her age was hard to pin down thanks to short, ash-colored hair and creamy skin. Like Fletcher, she had a lean build and regal features, but her bearing reminded me of an aging super heroine or space princess.
“Thanks.” I made myself smile.
Fletcher might have my dander up, but ordinarily, I was known for being easygoing. It wasn’t these people’s fault that the shipment of chickens had gone wrong. And it wasn’t Fletcher’s fault that he reminded me so viscerally of Astin. Or that he had no idea how to hold a chicken.
“Tell me about the chickens. They’re so unusual.” The woman crouched low to peer inside the boxes.
“Mother. I’m sure Mr. Barnes needs—”
“Call me Finn. And the Ayam Cemani are indeed special.” I cut Fletcher off because if there was anything I was willing to talk about, it was heritage-breed chickens, especially endangered ones like these. “They come from Indonesia originally. They’re highly prized for their dark coloring. Some believe their black meat, bones, and even their black skin and blood, have medicinal properties.”
“Goodness. The blood, even.” Fletcher’s mom looked paler now.
“Mother’s mainly a vegetarian.” Giving her a hand up off the floor, Fletcher gave her a sympathetic look. At least the guy was nice to his mom. That counted for something with me.
“I do eat eggs.” She smiled gamely. “I’m not sure about unusual meat colors…”
I gave a friendly laugh. “Well, I’ve got a farm-to-table restaurant in Colebury interested, if I can get these guys to breed. I’ve been looking for Ayam Cemani for some time now, but they seemed like an expensive indulgence. However, a farmer friend in Virginia had an order fall through and offered them to me at a steal.”
“Like a chicken rescue.” Fletcher’s mom seemed to like this idea so much that I sure wasn’t going to remind her that their final destiny was still dinner.
“Something like that. We’ve got a number of other ultra-rare birds, so we’ll have to see how these fare. And if I can keep the recessive coloring gene coming through with selective breeding.”
“Fascinating.” Cheeks pink, Fletcher had that look that city guys always get around the word breed like it’s some sort of dirty innuendo. He swiped at his forehead.
The chickens must have given him a good run. I wasn’t too broken up about that. Guys like him often needed taking down a peg or two in my experience, even if he treated his mom well.
“Guess I’ll take these out to my truck. I’m double-parked in your alley.” I’d figured picking up the chickens from the back of the store would be quick and easy. But I hadn’t counted on escapees. Or Harrison Fletcher and his distractingly elegant face.
“Do you need me to carry one box?” he offered.
“Nah. I’ve got it.” I hefted both boxes from the bottom, being extra careful with the repaired one.
And it was only later, when I was almost back to the farm, that I realized I’d never said a proper thank-you. Damn it. I was raised better than that, and Fletcher rattling me was no excuse.
Still stewing over my behavior, I found Ma and Rachel in the greenhouse.
“Come visit the new arrivals,” I suggested after I took yet another look at the ventilation.
“That sounds nice.” Grabbing Hastings, her dog, by the harness, Ma followed me to the barn where I’d installed the new chickens in a warming pen meant for slightly older chicks. “Tell me all about them.”
“They’re a true black. Not a speck of color on them. Like the witch’s hat you wore for Halloween when we were little. Small.” I guided her hand to one so she could tell what I meant. “These are still young, but even full grown, they’ll be around six pounds. Despite their big morning, they’re still super friendly and alert.”