Page 191 of Checking Out the Librarian

“Wear long sleeves and grab some boots from the back porch.” Connor’s voice held a warning note. “Some of the girls are ornery.”

He didn’t yet know these people well enough to lob the obvious replies about ornery girls, and Connor’s knowledge or lack thereof, but Jess went ahead and aimed that exact joke at her brother, and yes, they were going to absolutely gang up together on Connor.

But first, he had to survive the lair of the miniature feathered dinosaur descendants.

The silkie chickens that swarmed around his boots were small, poofy-headed creatures in need of hair ribbons, or at least a good salon visit, which he’d previously thought was only for dogs and sometimes cats.

Even without goofy bows, they were more adorable than he’d ever imagined chickens—an animal that he’d previously never imagined at all—could be.

Jonathan chose not to examine why these particular small, fancy, attention-hungry hens were Connor’s favorites.

The bigger ones, with their Velociraptor splayed-toe strides and very pointed beaks, chased away the Silkies, so the egg-gathering experience was a mixed bag of cutesy overload and nervous twitches.

“We do this every day.” Jess slid four eggs into the basket he carried.

He would be ecstatic if he never had to enter a hot, poopy chicken enclosure again in his life.

“Sometimes twice.”

He could do it. He’d become an Alpine farm girl herding mini-dinos, just gay and wearing jeans instead of a dirndl. And if Connor produced a cow and asked if he wanted to milk it, he would do that, too. It couldn’t be poopier than this coop.

“You can do this on your own tomorrow.”

Was she testing him? No one in their right mind would send him unsupervised into this melee. She must be testing him.

“Glad to help. Anything you want.” He was even talking with a television rancher’s clipped sentences and half the allotment of pronouns, although that was because he didn’t want to open his mouth. There were a lot of flies.

By Sunday he probably wouldn’t have any final Gs left in his vocabulary if this continued. And he might become vegan.

Whatever Jess was testing him on, he passed, probably not with an A, more likely a gentleman’s C, which meant he had room to improve. But he didn’t break any eggs or step on any chickens, and he didn’t flee, so he must have passed.

He met Connor’s father while he and Connor were leaning on a rail fence talking about the four horses idling in the shade cast by a sheet metal roof. That’s when Jonathan realized the McMillans had carefully staggered the introductions instead of flooding him all at once, a tactic probably organized by Connor.

Connor’s father was quieter, but that was a given since he lived with Jennifer and Jess. Unlike Connor, he could stand without vibrating on the balls of his feet, so Jonathan made some conclusions about where Connor had inherited his energy level, too.

When Connor’s father walked away to clean up before dinner, he clapped Connor’s shoulder and nodded. Jonathan thought that was possibly cowboy language of approval.

Dinner was delicious. Platters heaped with breaded and fried trout, tiny new potatoes, a big salad and sliced tomatoes with chèvre and fresh herbs, circulated on the long oak table. Connor’s mother explained that they didn’t keep goats, a neighbor did, and they swapped wagyu for goat cheese.

Nice to know there was at least one form of biting domesticated animal he wouldn’t be required to touch.

The table was a lot of talking, a lot of peopling, more even than story hour in those chaotic moments before the librarian opened the book and the kids focused. This was like three-point-five Connors in one place and it was loud. Very loud.

“Jonathan’s had a long drive.” Connor pushed his chair back. “I think we’re gonna to go listen for owls.”

If Jess’s expression was an indication of what would happen in the next fifteen minutes, this was a new euphemism.

Retreating behind the barn to stargaze with Connor was an activity he assumed he could handle. Even a complete city boy could recognize the sound of an owl somewhere above them in the twilight.

He was happier when Connor admitted that yes, listening for owls was indeed meant to cover Jonathan pushing Connor against the weathered wood and reenacting key plot points from the night they’d met. Mostly clothed, though, and mostly (well, entirely) Connor, because…bugs.

The ground was more than dubious behind the barn, so he wasn’t going to his knees and forbade Connor from it as well.

Connor liked being firmly told no. It made the rest of their owl-listening proceed successfully despite the lack of owls.

In front of him, Connor became an amalgam assembled from kisses to the hollows of his neck, stroking hands hidden under clothing, and words whispered into the quiet. He built Connor with his hands and lips, formed a sweet and loveable man, and then wrecked his creation.

He wanted Connor to tremble, to feel as much as he did, and that was achieved when he bit into the meat of Connor’s shoulder.