3. Aubree

three

Aubree

" A lright, girls, it's time to show these guys who's in charge." I reach down, scratching the closest goat, Tipsy Hooker, between the ears. She's a sweet black and white goat with all black from her hooves to the middle of her legs, giving her the illusion that she's wearing black hooker books, like the ones Julia Roberts wore in the movie Pretty Woman. Combine that and the fact that she looks a little off-centered when she walks—hence the name Tipsy Hooker.

The rest of the goats circling me bleat their agreement—from Peaches to Aquamarine to Little Bits to Black Rose and Dandelion. Even Lady Thea threw in her two cents when she normally ignores all my comments—too busy to be bothered by my daily nonsense.

Luckily, the remainder of the goats are in the barn on the far side of the farm, away from my main driveway. I don't want to overwhelm the guys with the number of goats on my farm, so these seven will be more than enough to start.

My goats are more than my livelihood. They've become my family, which I know sounds pathetic, but they keep me busy milking them for my handmade soaps, which I make and sell in local shops and farmers' markets. I even have an online store that keeps me financially stable.

Sure, my nights are lonely, living in the main farmhouse built for a large family, not an only child who, by the time her parents had her were already set in their ways and wanted adventure more than they wanted a daughter when they were forty.

Having them both die in a freak skydiving accident two years ago when they were celebrating their shared sixtieth birthday seems almost fitting for the life they loved. Being left home alone was something I've gotten used to.

My parents retired at age 55 and began traveling the world, continuing with their plans before they found out they were pregnant with me—their surprise baby. They never once considered it wrong to leave their fifteen-year-old daughter home alone with nothing better to do than to rescue unwanted goats for a hobby.

Being a lonely teenager was bad, but I've more than made up for it now—now I'm known as the town goat girl, not an unwanted daughter.

My uncle, Harold, would invite me to spend time with him and his family, but by that time, my cousins were all grown and playing pro hockey while my uncle coached pro hockey. It wasn't until a couple of years ago, when my cousins Cooper, Tate, and Sam moved to Iowa, that I felt like I had a family I could count on.

I'd do anything for my uncle and my cousins, but just because I'm letting three spoiled hockey players live on my farm for the next few weeks doesn't mean I have to like it.

Tate's SUV makes its way down my driveway, bouncing through the mud puddles I haven't had the time to fill, finally stopping a few feet away from where I'm standing. All four car doors swing open, and I'm greeted by three huge, grumpy, handsome men and Tate's mischievous smile.

"Hey, Cous," Tate says. His long legs eat up the ground as he walks toward me, scooping me up into his tight embrace and swinging me around until I think I'm going to throw up.

"Put me down." I laugh, smacking his arm.

He gives me one last twirl before setting me back on solid ground, "How's my favorite girl?" I snort because I know he's not talking about me. It seems Lady Thea prefers Tate's company over mine.

Lady Thea gallops over to Tate, moving faster than I've ever seen her move. Tate bends down in a squat in front of Lady Thea, petting her like she is the family dog and the little flirt that she is eating it up. She gives him one of her elusive goat smiles saved only for him and her favorite rice-crispy treats.

One of the grumpy guys takes a step back, "What's wrong with that goat? It looks like the Joker with that freaky smile."

I turn my head to hide my smile. The newcomer isn't wrong. Goats seem to have eerie facial expressions that can freak a person out if they're not used to it.

"Don't talk that way about my baby girl." Tate scowls at the guys. "He didn't mean it, Lady Thea—you're a good girl, aren't you." He coos and scratches her ears.

My cousin really needs to get himself a girlfriend. Even I haven't entirely gone over the deep end with my goats, and I live with them.

I occasionally date to keep my sanity from living on a goat farm alone. None of the guys I've dated have wanted anything long-term and certainly not anything permanent with my furry baggage.

It's a good thing I gave up looking for a long-term relationship after my parents died because of the horrified looks on my new temporary roommates faces; living on a goat farm isn't their idea of forever either.

"I'm Aubree," I say, reaching out to shake each one of their hands as they tell me their names. "Grab your luggage and leave him to his girlfriend." I motion to Tate and Lady Thea, still enjoying Tate's attention. "I'll show you guys to your rooms."

I don't blame Tate for getting distracted by petting a goat—it's soothing. It's also one of the reasons I want to expand the farm and create a place where families can spend time petting goats and other animals or doing goat yoga if I can get the goats to cooperate. It's amazing how much stress can be relieved by such a small action as touching an animal's fur.

Speaking of goat yoga, I promised my friend Maggie I'd bring the goats to her yoga studio this afternoon for a trial run. "We better get a move on. The goats need to be washed and dried before we take them to town for goat yoga." I call over my shoulder, only to be met with three groans and one full-on belly laugh from Tate.

"Have fun with that." Tate continues to laugh like a madman—knowing firsthand how uncooperative the goats can be. "I'll see you guys tomorrow at practice."