Around ten, I needed a break. I shut the laptop, swapped my T-shirt for a compression vest, and laced up my running shoes. A protein bar topped up my liquid breakfast, and then I headed downstairs. Outside, I took a route that kept me away from the fields and took me into town. Road running was hard on my knees, but the scenery around the farm was gorgeous, and I’d made it all the way to Holywell by the time I stopped for a rest.
I stretched my legs out on a bench outside the little shop where the farm seemed to get most of its basic groceries—bread, milk, eggs. As luck would have it, Joe emerged a few minutes into my stop, a jumbo packet of sausages tucked under his arm.
“What the fuck are you doing here?”
I’d grown used to his bluntness by now. The way he barked out questions like you’d been put on this earth to irritate him. I didn’t take it personally—anymore. I couldn’t deny that I’d spent my first few days on the farm believing that he hated me. It had taken me a few days to see that he was rude to just about everyone. “Running. It’s a beautiful day.”
Joe squinted through the bright sunshine, narrowing his ever-suspicious eyes. “I swear I saw you at the gate half an hour ago.”
I checked my watch. “You probably did.”
“You ran all the way here in half an hour?”
“Looks that way.”
Joe stared me down—or, at least, tried to. I’d grown used to that too, and he reminded me of the semi-feral cats who lived around the house at the farm. The females were generally friendly if I tossed them a bit of chicken, but the tomcats remained aloof, glaring at me from a distance until I glared back hard enough for them to lose interest and wander off.
True to form, Joe grunted and walked away. He was at his van I hadn’t noticed parked a few feet from the bench when he turned back. “It’s my turn to make lunch. Are you about?”
Damn it. What was it about this family and feeding me? “Don’t worry about me. I’ll sort myself out later.”
“With what? The three-hundred chicken breasts you’ve stashed in the fridge.”
“Probably.”
Joe opened his van and tossed the sausages inside. Again, I expected him to follow the bangers and drive off, but something drew me closer to him. I was a foot or so away when he turned, leaning back on the van, the sun that had been in his eyes before now casting a sinful shadow across his face. “How do you stay so big when you don’t eat fuck all?”
I suppressed an age-old urge to fold my arms across my chest and hunch my shoulders. “I eat.”
“I’ve never seen you.”
“Liar. I had dinner with you last night.”
“That boiled chicken breast shite you were eating? Fuck that.”
I forced a grin. “It’s good for fitness—high protein, low fat. I don’t know how you eat all those carbs and stay so lean.”
“Calling me skinny?”
There was humour in Joe’s stormy eyes, but I denied it anyway. “No, I’m saying that if I ate like you, I’d be the size of a house.”
“You are the size of a house.”
“A softer house, then.”
Joe laughed—really laughed, from deep in his belly instead of his usual gruff and reluctant chuckle. “You’re a strange man.”
He was one to talk, but I let it go with a shrug. “If you say so. I’m probably just jealous. I haven’t had a sausage in years.”
Joe stopped laughing. His eyebrows disappeared into his inky hairline, and his gaze flashed with something I couldn’t quite decipher but yet seemed oddly familiar at the same time. A silence stretched between us—neither loaded or light. And then,finally, the innuendo of what I’d said hit home.
Shit.Was I about to get bitch-slapped with some homophobic bullshit? No one at Whisper Farm seemed interested enough to give a fuck about my queerness, and I’d assumed—given that most of them had referenced my blog—that it wasn’t a secret. That it didn’tneedto be.
My heart skipped a beat. That wasn’t unheard of in Joe’s company, but it felt different now, and I took an unconscious step back before I caught myself. Fuck that. I was out and proud and pushing thirty. Was I really going to back down from this when I’d faced down—
Joe’s long fingers closed around my wrist. “What’s up with you?”
“What?”