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)
“What happened to the shipment? Rachel said it went to the wrong place?”
“Yep. They went downtown to a new bookstore.” I filled her in on the details while the chickens explored and Hastings waited patiently next to her, black tail thumping against the barn floor.
“Those poor people.” Her gentle face creased. Her hair was in a neat French braid, probably due to Rachel having extra time that morning on account of getting out of stall mucking. “Escaped chickens. It’s a wonder no books were ruined.”
I laughed because of course she’d worry about the books. The main house overflowed with all the titles she’d read to us as kids. “The books seemed fine. But…”
“Yes?”
“I wasn’t at my best,” I admitted.
“You? You’re always nice. People love you.” She found my face for a soft pat.
“Thanks, Ma. I try. But maybe not hard enough because I don’t think I said a proper thank-you.”
“Ah.” Her tone was expectant, like she was dying to give advice, but wanted to let me handle the situation. And it wasn’t like I didn’t already know what I had to do.
“I’m going to see to a few things here, then take them some eggs and maybe some of last summer’s jam as a thank-you.”
“I think there’s a basket you could use for a nice presentation in the hall closet.” She sounded pleased, but that wasn’t why I was headed back to Vino and Veritas. It was the right thing to do. Neighborly.
And Harrison Fletcher’s attractiveness didn’t have a single thing to do with my decision. Yes, I’d seen the rainbows on their door, but that didn’t necessarily indicate anything about Fletcher personally. Not that I cared. I’d bring the guy a thank-you and be on my way back to reminding myself that sexy, rich, and older was not my type. Not even a little bit.
Chapter Three
Harrison
Hot chicken farmers had no place in my mental real estate. I had a biography section to arrange. Not to mention, I had Mom’s handiwork in the children’s area to admire and Oz to supervise. There was absolutely no point in remembering how Finn’s muscles had flexed as he’d hefted the boxes of chickens and strode away, his rear a view worthy of a denim ad campaign.
A lot of musclebound men had flat asses, but his was—
Stop it. I gave myself a mental shake. I did not need to be evaluating the perfection of Finn Barnes’s ass. I needed to get my work done. We were rapidly approaching our soft opening date, and the grand opening wasn’t that far off either. I conducted a few more clerk interviews and managed to make some headway on my sections.
By late afternoon, Oz had unpacked all of the day’s deliveries and clocked out, and I’d convinced Mom to put her feet up on one of the new footstools while she enjoyed a cup of tea near the cooking section. Meanwhile, I tried to organize nearby titles while not noticing every book that had a tangential link to poultry.
“Did you finish writing the job description for the wine-bar manager job?” she asked.
Before I could reply, a knock sounded at the main doors. I approached them and called out, “We’re closed. We’ll be open this weekend.” Mindful that this could be a potential customer or employee, I kept my voice brighter than usual.
“It’s Finn Barnes.”
I unlocked the door and tugged it open. As if my daydreams had conjured him, Finn stood there. His shirt was cleaner than the one he’d worn this morning. Plaid again, but blue this time, like his eyes.
“Did you forget a bird?” The horror of that idea had me opening the door wide and ushering him in.
“No, nothing like that.” He had a nice laugh, full of youthful energy without being childish and a sort of genuineness that a lot of my social circle in New York couldn’t seem to manage. “I realized I never said thank you for your assistance in getting the chickens to us. I wanted to drop this by.”
He held up a basket, an actual wicker thing, complete with red-checked napkin over the top and a jaunty red ribbon around the rim.
“Oh, how beautiful.” Mom came up beside me to take the basket.
“Very thoughtful,” I added because it really was, making an extra trip for this.
“I remembered you said that you eat eggs, Mrs. Fletcher, so I brought you and your son a selection from the farm.” Finn flipped the napkin open to reveal a lidless carton with a dozen eggs of various colors and sizes. There were also two glass jars, and clear plastic bags of what looked to be cookies.
“How lovely! And do call me Audrey. I let Harrison keep all the formality around here.” Eyes sparkling, she laughed. “And what are these? Cookies?”
“My oldest sister, Caroline, bakes maple cookies for the farm stand. She’s testing a new recipe and happened to drop off two variations right as I was packing up your basket.”