The chicken was in his yard again. Ugly, red wattle dangling beneath its beak like loose jowls, brown feathers puffed in an inflated sense of superiority. On any other day Sam normally wouldn’t have cared so much about the mess it was making of his garden, but this was the third time in as many days, the magazine crew would be here within the hour, and he’d told Bo to fix his damn fence.
Sighing, Sam set his mug on the counter. He really hadn’t had enough coffee yet to deal with this.
He walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to the front door, where he put on a pair of flip-flops before exiting his house. Down the driveway, a left at the tiny gravel sidewalk, around the hedges in Bo’s yard, up Bo’s driveway. The early June sun pierced his eyes. He knocked on the front door and waited for Bo to answer.
Ever since Bo had taken over running Big Sky—the animal rehabilitation centre next door to Sam’s—four weeks ago from his sister, Laura, it had been one disaster after another. Damaged enclosures, a pygmy goat with diarrhea, equipment that didn’t work, flooding in the cows’ pen after a bad rainfall, a yappy pair of not-quite-housebroken puppies. And now? Broken fences and runaway chickens.
The door opened, revealing a rumpled Bo dressed in old jeans, hiking boots, and a T-shirt streaked with dirt. He was out of breath, as if he’d run to the front door. The pair of dirty work gloves in his hand told Sam he’d probably been working out back.
The unsure smile on Bo’s face turned into a scowl when he saw who stood on his doorstep at nine in the morning. Sam ignored how cute Bo’s frowny face was and drew himself up to his full six-foot-three height. Bo was not his type. Too short, too lean, eyes too brown, hair too blond. Too flaky, too temperamental, too feisty, too…too much.
Nope. Not Sam’s type at all.
Bo’s hands went to his hips. He looked like a knight defending his domain. A tiny, skinny one with a bad attitude.
“What now?” he snapped.
“You didn’t fix the fence,” Sam said.
“I—”
Sam held up a hand, cutting Bo off. “Look. I know you know what day it is. The crew’s going to be here in less than an hour. The last thing I need is your chicken masquerading as a prison escapee messing up my garden.” Bo’s lips twitched, but Sam ignored how that made him feel and continued. “Fix your goddamn fence. And get your chicken out of my yard.” Bo opened his mouth to speak but Sam didn’t give him the chance. He turned and descended the porch steps. “Oh.” He turned back to find Bo still frowning at him, lips pressed in a tight line. “And if your chickens keep escaping, maybe there’s something wrong with the chicken coop?”
The slamming door at his back was surprisingly satisfactory.
Argh! Bo kicked his closed front door. That…that man. Every five damn minutes he was up in Bo’s face about something.
I’m trying to work, Bo. Can you get the dogs to stop barking?
Why is the goat making weird noises?
How did your chicken get into my yard?
What’s that smell?
Fix your side of the fence.
Bo had fixed his side of the fence, damn it, so it wasn’t his fault the chicken was still getting into Sam’s yard. If anything, it was Sam’s side that needed to be repaired. But did Sam give him a chance to say his piece? Nooooo. Mr. I’m So Cool With My Muscles And Tallness And Swanky Haircut wouldn’t get off his pedestal long enough for Bo to defend himself.
Not that Bo was envious of those muscles or that tallness or that swanky haircut that was on the redder side of strawberry blond. He was perfectly fine with his own five foot seven height and his messy ‘do. Tallness was overrated anyway. And he had his own muscles. Arm muscles, anyway. The little pudge on his belly, courtesy of Bo’s love of cookies, left a lot to be desired.
But whatever. Arm muscles were all he needed to catch a guy’s attention at the clubs and bars. By the time the guy realized Bo wasn’t so muscly all over, they were already in each other’s pants and that little detail no longer mattered.
Bring on the cookies.
Shaking his head at himself, he headed out back to the shed and grabbed a thicker pair of gloves and some chicken feed. He inspected his side of the fence—just in case he was mistaken. Which he wasn’t, thank you very much. Grunting in satisfaction, he left his backyard via the gate and cut through the path in the hedges between his and Sam’s front yards. After unlatching the gate to Sam’s backyard, he followed the sounds of clucking chicken to a wildflower garden along the back fence. Along with some kind of leafy tree and a couple of shrubs, there were bursts of yellow, purple, and pink flowers in the garden that Bo couldn’t name to save his life.
Of course it was that chicken. The brown one with the lone white feather along its back. The instigator of the group. The one that riled up the other chickens and always seemed to find a way out of the chicken coop. The one who’d pecked Bo’s hands raw the first time Bo tried to pick him up. That was where his new extra-thick gloves came in.
He slipped them on before scattering some chicken feed. Bait the chicken and then grab it from behind, the YouTube tutorial he’d watched the other day had said. Bo had become somewhat of a chicken corralling expert in the past couple of weeks. A skill he never thought he’d need and didn’t know how to add to his resume without sounding like a smart-ass.
The chicken went after the food just like always. Bo gave it a minute to eat most of it, then quietly snuck up behind it, cupped his hands around its sides, and lifted.
The angry squawk the chicken let out pierced Bo’s eardrums and its legs worked as if trying to walk on air. Bo held on tighter as the bird struggled in his grip. He made tracks for the gate, where Sam was oh-so-helpfully holding it open. The sight of him standing there all tall and perfect jolted Bo and had him fumbling the chicken. A wing got loose and flapped in his face.
Bo thought he heard a chuckle, but when he looked at Sam around the feathers in his face, the man was as stony as ever. Was that a hint of laughter in Sam’s eyes? No. The man didn’t know how to laugh. Drawing his shoulders back, head high, Bo stalked past him and—
“Don’t forget to fix your fence,” Sam said.
Before Bo even had a chance to reply, the gate slammed at his back. Muttering under his breath, he marched back to his own yard. After opening the door to the chicken coop, he deposited his load inside and slammed the door closed.
“And stay there!”
Damn chicken was going to be the death of him.
He checked his fence again; sure enough, there was still nothing wrong with his side. Though how the chicken managed to slip through that tiny hole, Bo didn’t know.
“‘Don’t forget to fix your fence.’” Bo imitated Sam’s deep voice. “Jerk.”
Voices on the other side of the fence interrupted what would’ve been an epic sulk-fest.
“Oh, this is lovely,” a female voice said.
“You did this yourself?” The male voice was low and rough, that of a smoker.
“I did, yes.” That was Sam, sounding humble and pleased instead of his usual condescending. Like the guy Laura had described but Bo hadn’t seen a peek of.
“This is perfect for the magazine, don’t you think, Greg?”