Page 1 of Purring for Her Lion (Harmony Glen #5)

LIANA

My bare feet press into the dewy grass, toes curling with frustration as I stare at the betrayal before me: a gaping hole in my supposedly chicken-proof fence.

The morning sun beats against my skin, making the thin cotton of my shirt stick to my back as seven escaped chickens strut around my yard clucking with the confidence of prison escapees who’ve just tunneled their way to freedom.

This is not how my homesteading fantasy was supposed to unfold.

In my imagination, homesteading was all flowy dresses and perfect braids, morning coffee on the porch with the smell of fresh bread wafting through the house. There was always a basket in these fantasies filled with fresh eggs and vegetables I’d magically grown without killing.

Instead, I’m standing barefoot in my backyard at 6:47 AM, wearing pajama pants with dancing penguins on them, with seven escaped chickens, a half-built coop, and a growing suspicion that my neighbors are documenting my failures for their personal entertainment.

I squint at my absolutely useless backyard fence. The DIY tutorial had made it look so easy. “Simple chicken coop for beginners!” they said. “Afternoon project!” they promised.

Three weekends and seven YouTube videos later, I have what can only be described as a modern art installation made of wire and disappointment.

The chickens, meanwhile, are thriving in their criminal era.

They peck at the ground with delighted little jerks of their heads, wandering farther from safety.

Buttercup, my white Leghorn, has already made it to the edge of my struggling vegetable garden, eyeing my tomato plants with malicious intent.

Chestnut, my Rhode Island Red and obvious mastermind behind this jailbreak, struts across the lawn with her chest puffed out. She stops, turns to look directly at me, and lets out a cluck that sounds suspiciously like mockery.

“I see you,” I hiss. “You think you’re so clever.”

A soft breeze rustles through the trees, and for a split second, everything is deceptively peaceful. Golden morning light filters through the leaves, painting dappled shadows across my overgrown lawn. The sky is clear and perfect blue, birds chirping in the distance.

Then Chestnut, the ringleader of my feathery gang of delinquents, lets out a smug cluck and takes off toward the property line.

“Oh, hell no.”

I sprint after her, ignoring the sharp stab of twigs under my bare feet. My heart pounds as I push myself faster, cursing my previous life’s neglect of cardio. Every second counts in a chicken pursuit.

I barely know anything about my neighbor except that he keeps to himself, he’s apparently huge, and he’s not exactly friendly.

The woman at the general store described him as “not much for talking” with a significant look that suggested this was the understatement of the century.

Someone else mentioned he was “from away”—small-town speak for anything from “moved here from the next county” to “literal alien.”

But none of that matters, because my chicken is committing trespassing crimes, and I refuse to become known as the woman whose poultry vandalized the grumpy neighbor’s property after only three weeks in Harmony Glen.

“Chestnut, I swear to every ancestor I have, if you do not get back here—” My threat dissolves into breathless panting as the chicken veers left, darting between two trees and straight into what I can now see is my neighbor’s backyard.

Except “backyard” doesn’t begin to cover it.

The land opens into a sweeping field bordered by ancient trees that stand guard over the space.

A small pond glitters in the morning light like scattered diamonds.

A massive oak dominates one side, its branches stretched wide, and near it stands an open barn with weathered wood and neatly stacked hay bales visible inside.

It’s unfairly beautiful, like a painting brought to life. Each element placed with perfect intention, creating a harmony my chaotic little homestead could never achieve.

Even the grass seems greener, more lush, as if it knows it’s growing on superior soil.

It’s also very, very occupied.

By someone very, very large.

I skid to a stop, bare feet sliding on dewy grass, breath coming in short gasps. My hair has escaped its messy bun, falling around my face in sweat-dampened strands. I’m painfully aware of my appearance: barefoot, disheveled, wearing a T-shirt that says “HOMESTEAD QUEEN” in big, ironic letters.

The universe has a sick sense of humor.

The massive figure before me is not an old lady spying from a window.

He is tall. Impossibly tall, towering at least seven feet. Broad, with shoulders that could carry my entire chicken coop without strain. And he is covered in golden fur that catches the morning light, giving him an almost ethereal glow despite his intimidating size.

The first thing I notice are his eyes. Golden like his fur, but deeper, more intense. Sharp, like they see too much and whatever they’re seeing is all severely lacking.

The second thing is that he looks dangerously unimpressed. His expression is completely neutral, but somehow that makes it worse. Like I’m not even worth the energy it would take to frown.

Great.

My first impression with my neighbor is me trespassing barefoot in pajamas, chasing after a chicken now pecking contentedly at his immaculate lawn.

The silence stretches between us, thick and uncomfortable. I open my mouth, close it, then open it again like a fish gasping for air. The shock of encountering this lion-man has short-circuited my brain.

Then Chestnut lets out an extremely inconvenient cluck.

I clear my throat, attempting diplomacy. “Hi.”

Nothing. Not a word. Not a nod. Just those golden eyes fixed on me with unnerving intensity.

“So, funny story,” I continue, voice only slightly breathless. “I just moved in next door. I’m new to the whole...” I wave a hand vaguely, encompassing the trees, fields, the concept of rural living. “Country thing.”

More silence. Not even a blink. Just perfect stillness, like he’s a statue carved from amber and muscle. His tail—because of course he has a tail, long and tufted like a lion’s—remains motionless.

I take a careful step toward Chestnut, who is pretending to be deaf. The chicken deliberately turns away, continuing her inspection of perfect grass.

The massive lion-man finally exhales through his nose—a sound so quiet I barely catch it, but it sends a strange shiver down my spine.

Then he moves.

Fast.

Before I can react, he’s beside Chestnut, movements fluid and precise. His large hands guide the bird with gentle authority, never touching but somehow commanding complete cooperation.

He’s too graceful for someone that large, moving with no wasted energy, no hesitation. Just purpose.

It takes three seconds to gather my problematic poultry while I stand there like a useless background character in my own life.

When the last chicken is back near me—how he managed this without a fence is pure magic—I blink up at him.

His face remains impassive, but I swear there’s something in his eyes. Judgment? Amusement? Impossible to tell.

“You’re like an expert chicken wrangler, huh?”

Nothing. Just silent judgment.

I adjust my grip on Chestnut, who has suddenly decided to behave. “I had it under control, you know.”

One eyebrow lifts. The tiniest shift in expression, but somehow devastatingly condescending.

I push hair out of my face with my free hand, cheeks burning. “You’re really quiet.”

His tail flicks once. Then, finally, he speaks.

“You’re really loud.”

His voice catches me off guard. Deep and slightly rough, like he doesn’t use it often, but clear and precise. No wasted syllables, just like his movements.

Before I can form a comeback, he nods toward my fence. “It’s weak.”

I frown. “Excuse me?”

“Your coop. Your fencing.” He gestures toward my property. “If you don’t fix it, predators will get in.”

I should be grateful for free advice, but instead I’m drowning in the unfairness.

This man is huge, competent, and looks like he was sculpted by agricultural gods themselves.

His property is a pastoral dream, his chicken-wrangling skills are professional-grade, and he managed to say more with one raised eyebrow than I can convey in an entire paragraph.

I, meanwhile, am a hot mess in chicken-covered pajamas.

I exhale slowly. “I was going to reinforce it. Eventually.”

He lifts a brow, the look so skeptical I immediately feel like a liar. Like he can see through my fake confidence straight to the Pinterest boards and YouTube tutorials I’ve been desperately consulting.

Then, without another word, he turns and starts walking toward my property.

“What are you doing?” I demand, hurrying after him, trying to keep up with his long strides while also keeping hold of Chestnut.

“Fixing it.”

“Wait—now?”

He doesn’t answer, just continues walking with purpose, as if the fastest way to solve the problem of me and my wayward chickens is to eliminate the source.

I have to jog to keep up while carrying a chicken. By the time we reach my property, I’m breathless again, and he’s already kneeling beside my pathetic fence, examining the damage.

I watch in awe and horror as he begins working, large hands surprisingly dexterous as he secures loose wire and reinforces weak spots. His claws—actual retractable claws like a cat’s but larger—easily secure loose wood.

He brought no tools. Apparently needs none. The fence that took me three weekends to construct poorly is being expertly repaired in minutes.

A few minutes pass in silence, aside from his working and occasional confused clucks from my chickens.

Finally, I clear my throat. “So, uh. I didn’t catch your name.”

He doesn’t look up. “Roarke.”

“Roarke.” I test the sound. It fits—strong, unusual, impossible to ignore. “I’m Liana.”

A beat of silence. “I know.”

I should probably be alarmed that he knows my name, but honestly? After this morning, I’m just grateful my chickens didn’t cause a diplomatic incident. Besides, it’s a small town. Everyone probably knows everything about me already.

I cross my arms, watching him work, still reeling from the absurdity of my life choices. Three weeks ago, I was subletting an apartment in New York surrounded by technology and takeout options. Now I’m watching a lion-man fix my chicken coop before breakfast.

At least my neighbor’s ridiculously competent.

And, you know. A little hot.

But I am not thinking about that.

Not at all.

I’m just going to stand here, holding my criminal chicken, and pretend this is a completely normal way to start a Tuesday morning.