Noah loved the people he worked with and had enjoyed his time in Nor Cal, but he was ready for something simpler, sunnier. Ready for big blue skies and stretches of land without a manmade structure for miles and room to breathe and grow things. Things like vegetables and babies and dreams that have nothing to do with binary code.
Small towns have their downsides too, you know.
It’s not all bug-resistant asparagus and picturesque town squares and delicious homemade moonshine that’ll knock you flat on your ass for half the price of two designer martinis.
Noah stretched his arms out wide and lifted his face to the sun, ignoring the voice of caution. Sure, he might be romanticizing small town life a little, but he wasn’t imagining how good he felt every time he came to Lonesome Point. Even Spermgate couldn’t completely get him down.
He was walking through verdant fields of thriving living things, he would soon have the crisis contained, and all would be well with the world.
The thought had barely crossed his mind when a sound like the battle cry of a deranged banshee shattered the peaceful country air. It was a sound straight out of the depths of hell and sent a shiver dancing up his spine.
“Help!” a breathless voice shouted. “Oh please, help! I can’t run anymore!”
Noah turned to see quite possibly the biggest rooster in existence chasing a petite, red-faced woman in a white sundress across the fallow field at the edge of Bruce’s property. There was already blood on the backs of her legs and the monster tailing her was clearly out for more.
Without stopping to wonder how one went about fighting a rooster, Noah set off at a sprint through the knee high grass. He didn’t consider himself a hero, but there were certain things a man did without question.
He opened doors.
He paid for dinner.
And he offered his fists in service to women being pursued by rabid, demon cocks.
CHAPTER THREE
Yasmin
Just when Yasmin was certain that death-via-rooster was in her imminent future, Bruce O’Sullivan turned and ran toward her, coming to the rescue.
Wait a second…
That wasn’t Bruce O’Sullivan.
This man was a little taller, a little thicker, but no less handsome. In fact, he was flipping hot as hell. If she wasn’t already out of breath, seeing such a stunning specimen sprinting her way in faded jeans that hugged his manly thighs, a tight red tee that left no doubt his chest was equally manly, and a ball cap that completed the typical good old boy outfit would have done the job.
She’d sworn off men, but that didn’t mean she was blind. Or dead.
At least not yet.
“Ow!” She cried out in pain as Sampson took advantage of her momentary distraction and exhaustion to aim another wicked peck at her ankle. She tried to speed up, but her muscles were tapped out.
Thankfully, Not Bruce O’Sullivan arrived a second later and aimed a booted foot at the rooster, summoning an outraged squawk from the foul-tempered creature. Yasmin spun, bracing her hands on her knees and struggling to catch her breath, just in case Not Bruce lost this battle and more running-for-her-life was needed.
But it looked like Not Bruce was determined to take out the threat to their safety. His well-aimed kicks and deep calls for Sampson to “get out of here” and “pick on someone your own size” had the rooster on the defensive. Sampson backed away, wings flapping and his shiny green tail feathers bristling. A half mile back, Yasmin had still been concerned about protecting Sampson’s prize-winning pelt, but now she was just hoping to emerge without any scars. If Sampson was damaged, her mother was just going to have to deal with it.
And hopefully, stop breeding roosters from this diseased bloodline.
Finally, after chasing the rooster a good fifty feet away, Not Bruce turned back to her to ask, “Are you all right?”
It was a fatal mistake.
Before Yasmin could warn him never to turn his back on an enraged rooster, Sampson struck. One moment, Not Bruce was walking back toward her, the next he was crying out in pain as a rooster beak made intimate contact with his backside.
“What the—” He spun, batting at the bird, but Sampson had already struck again and again until the man had no choice but to make a run for it.
He sprinted toward her, his eyes wide in his handsome face. “Run!” he shouted, shooing a hand. “Head for the other side of the field. There’s a tree we can climb.”
But Yasmin didn’t turn to run. Enough was enough. Sampson had gone too far. Attacking family was one thing; pecking the heck out of total strangers was another.
Whipping off her sandal, Yasmin bent her knees, narrowed her eyes, and prepared for battle. As her would-be hero raced past her, she dodged his grab for her elbow and launched her sandal at the rooster’s head. Thankfully, her pitcher’s arm—honed through nine seasons playing softball for Lonesome Point teams growing up—was still in excellent condition. The sandal connected with Sampson’s head, Sampson squawked in pain and indignation, and a moment later the monster had turned and high-tailed it down the hill, flouncing back toward town.
“Should we call the police?” Not Bruce asked, catching his breath as he came to stand beside her. “Warn them or something?”
Yasmin shook her head as she fetched her sandal and slipped it back on. “No, I think it’s okay. Sampson usually doesn’t go after other people. Just me. It’s a sibling rivalry thing.”
The man’s eyebrows crept higher on his forehead. “Sibling rivalry?” His glance skimmed down her body and back up again, making her cheeks feel hotter. “You don’t look part chicken.”
Yasmin laughed. “I’m not. Though I do prefer to run from conflict.” She held out a hand, smiling up at her would-be hero. “Yasmin North. My mom raises prize-winning roosters. They enjoy trying to kill me so that they can be my mama’s only babies. It’s the stuff of town legend.”
“Noah O’Sullivan,” the man said, his beautiful mouth curving into an even more beautiful smile as he took her hand. It was a warm, dry hand and it felt way too nice folding around hers. “Nice to meet you, Yasmin North. I’m sorry I wasn’t more help.”
“No, you were great.” She pulled her hand from his, trying her best to conceal the warm, aware feeling prickling across her skin. “A big help. I wouldn’t have had time to get my shoe off without you. I hope your, um…parts are okay.”
She would normally say “butt” or “ass” and use this entire interaction as an excuse to flirt her way into a date with this gorgeous specimen of musclebound manhood. But that was the old Yasmin. The old Yasmin flirted with practiced ease and hadn’t met a man she couldn’t win over—at least for a date or two. But the old Yasmin also dated serial killers. New Yasmin didn’t date anyone and used words like “parts” or maybe “backside” when she was feeling particularly sassy.
New Yasmin was boring and would probably have tumbleweeds rolling down her vagina in a few years, but at least, she would be able to keep herself, and her future baby, safe.
Noah winced and dropped a hand to press against one firm, rounded butt cheek, making it almost impossible to keep her gaze above his belt. She’d only peeked for a second before, but it had been long enough to assure her that this man filled the hell out of a pair of jeans.