One Night Stand-In (Boyfriend Material #3) - Lauren Blakely Page 0,52
say. “Are alpacas llamas?”
As we get into a Lyft, we google pictures of the animals, and since the differences are apparent – alpacas have shorter ears and are smaller in size, while llamas have longer faces—we’re not debating whatsoever. We’re agreeing as we point out the similarities.
When we reach the sanctuary, she shoots me a wistful look. “Guess we aren’t arguing anymore. Like we did last night over how we met.”
“Guess we aren’t like them at all.” I fasten on a smile. Not arguing is a plus, surely.
She sighs. “Good. I don’t want to be like them. I don’t want to argue.”
“I don’t either.” But while that’s true, it doesn’t feel entirely right.
Maybe because I don’t know what I want us to be.
Because when we exit the car, we’re not arguing, but we’re not holding hands either.
That’s because you’re friends, you dumbass. Be her fucking friend, something you failed to do ten years ago.
Right.
That’s it.
I’m fixing the mistakes of the past.
I’m not the guy who messed around with a girl and then freaked out when she only wanted to be friends.
I gesture to the white picket fence surrounding the farm. “Hey, have you ever considered whether this might be a haunted alpaca farm? Maybe Harrison is masterminding a horror novel.”
Her lips curve into a grin. “I bet he is.” We walk a little more, then she says, “Lucas?”
“Yes?”
“I’ll beat up the clown if one comes after you.”
I laugh. “What more can a man ask for?”
And, truly, I can’t ask for anything more, because we’re back in business.
20
Lola
Things I never expected to do on a Saturday with my pseudo ex, sorta lover, new friend: tour a llama and alpaca sanctuary.
But I’m a little bit in love with the cousin camelids.
That’s what Davina calls them, the Melissa McCarthy look-alike who runs The Cousin Sanctuary. “We grew up with both these creatures in Auckland,” she says in a light New Zealand accent. “That’s why I wanted to work with abandoned, neglected, or abused ones here when I came to the States. So many needed a home.”
She ushers us into the barn, along the stalls, past stacks of hay, and to her “lovelies,” as she calls them.
A thick-furred creature lifts his snout at us, humming.
“That’s Harvey. He’s just saying hi,” Davina says, then pats the animal on the nose. “He’s shameless. Always angling for a little loving.”
I peer at the license-plate-style placard on the green gates of Harvey’s stall. It says Want to adopt me? Alpaca my bags.
“How often do they get adopted?” Lucas asks, studying the creature cautiously, like he’s never seen an animal before.
Davina smiles softly, sadness in her expression. “Not too often. Most people don’t have room for alpacas, or llamas for that matter. Lots of folks think they do. They think it’ll be so cute to get a little llama on a leash for a youngster’s birthday. And then a few years later, it’s all, oops, I actually have to take care of this animal. Like, with a barn. And hay! And it eats two to four percent of its body weight every day,” she says, then shifts to her normal voice. “But that’s why your brother and his belle came here. They had this idea that someday they would have a farm and take care of these lovelies,” Davina says, walking past another stall bearing a sign that says Spit happens.
“Always dreaming,” Lucas remarks, but there’s no mockery in his voice. More an appreciation for his brother.
Davina glances back at us. “Stars in their eyes, true. But I’m grateful for the two of them. They come out here and help. Lugging bales of hay, cleaning up, and taking care of my little lovelies.”
Lucas nods thoughtfully, like he’s assembling this image in his mind. “I can see that.”
We pass another stall housing a pair of black llamas nuzzling each other. The sign on the gate boldly proclaims No llama drama here.
I point to it. “That’s sweet,” I say, my heart warming as the taller of the two rubs a snout against the other’s.
Davina scoffs. “Ha! They’re showing off for visitors. Normally they’re screaming at each other. Huffing and puffing and arguing about something.” She stretches out an arm and pats one on the head then the other.
Lucas shoots me a knowing grin. “That sounds like Rowan and Luna.”
Davina chuckles, stopping in front of the next stall, home to a couple of black-and-white llamas. “Here’s Frick and Frack.” The sign on this stall declares The Alpacalypse is coming! You’ve been warned.