The Mistletoe Kisser - Lucy Score Page 0,19
the barn.
The flock of chickens squawked at her from their temporary coop inside. “You guys can go outside tomorrow,” she promised them. Finding the first stall clean enough, she made quick work of spreading the straw for a comfy, temporary sheep bed. She added a scoop of pellets to the feed bin then found and filled a heated water bucket.
“Okay, bud. Head on in. Your grumpy roommate will let you out to graze in the morning, and we’ll go from there,” she promised.
Obediently Stan shuffled into the stall and shoved his face into the food bin.
Sammy secured the stall door and headed back out into the December cold. She debated just leaving, but her first kiss had grown into an adult ass. Ryan Shufflebottom needed to understand he couldn’t come to town, not remember her, and start abandoning livestock all over town.
There were rules, after all.
She’d just pop in, yell at him a little, and be on her way. If she kept the lecture short, she could finish a half-dozen wreaths before bedtime. Okay. That was a little optimistic. Maybe three wreaths.
Sammy took the porch steps two at a time and gave the front door an authoritative rap.
A muffled snarl sounded on the other side of the door.
In Blue Moon, that was good enough to be considered an invitation. She pushed open the front door and stopped short when she spotted him.
He was kicked back in Carson’s favorite recliner, wearing one of Enid Macklemore’s rainbow knit hats and one mitten. A mostly empty bottle of whiskey sat on the ancient metal TV tray next to him. It was wrapped in the matching scarf.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” she groaned.
“Hey, vet lady,” Ryan crooned. Apparently Drunk Ryan was significantly more friendly than Sober Ryan. “How’s Stan? He’s a sheep, you know.” He picked up the bottle and drank straight from it.
“I am aware,” she said, crossing her arms and weighing her options. He was an asshole. But a drunk one. Her veterinarian’s oath required her to use her skills in the “prevention and relief of animal suffering.” Considering this guy’s manners, he was on par with a misbehaving baboon.
On a heavy sigh, she stomped back into the kitchen. The room was an homage to the 1960s, complete with bile yellow appliances and brown, peeling linoleum tiles. She found a glass, filled it with water, and returned to the living room.
He was hefting the whiskey again, aiming for his mouth but on course to make contact with his eyeball when she snatched the bottle out of his hands.
“Uh-uh, buddy. No more. Drink this instead.”
He took the glass from her and drank half of it down before making a face. “This clear whiskey is garbage,” he said, sniffing the glass.
“Drink the rest of it,” she ordered.
“You smell much better than you did,” he mused. “It makes you more attractive.”
If she slapped him now, he wouldn’t feel a thing and likely wouldn’t remember it. She’d save it for when he was sober.
“I’m so glad you approve,” she said dryly.
“My approval shouldn’t matter. You’re fairly beautiful. You should know that without someone telling you.” Drunk Ryan’s level of snark rivaled Sober Ryan’s.
“You’ve gotten really bad at giving compliments since we first met,” she observed.
“Ha. Joke’s on you. I was never good at it. ’Sides, why should I tell you you’re sexy when you obviously already know you are? Waste of time.” He hiccupped.
“What the hell happened to you, Ryan?” she asked. The guy she remembered had been mischievous, lively, flirtatious. The man he’d grown into was a grumpy pain in the ass. Maybe it was the military school his mother had threatened him with all those years ago?
She found a pack of lime green sticky notes on the skinny table at the foot of the stairs. The mirror above it was covered in Carson’s nearly indecipherable notes to himself.
Find lightbulbs.
Buy overalls.
Breakfast with BC.
Her eyes narrowed when she read the last one. In Blue Moon, BC stood for the Beautification Committee, and the Beautification Committee stood for trouble. Before she could puzzle out why Carson would be having breakfast with them, Ryan distracted her.
“Hey! Hey, Sexy Sam?”
She didn’t turn around fast enough, and he pegged her in the back with a cross-stitched throw pillow that said Farm Life.
“What?” she asked in exasperation.
“Why do you keep pretending like we know each other?” he asked. His bloodshot eyes narrowed, presumably to keep her in focus.
“Because we do know each other.” But only one of them had been