Eden grins. “Perfect. Liza needs more structure in her life.” She dodges the handful of mud Eliza throws at her. “Speaking of structure, you should come to our cookie exchange next Sunday. Very civilized, very scheduled. Right up your alley, Reed.”
“I don’t really do social gatherings,” I say, which is true but sounds pathetic when said out loud.
“Neither does Eliza,” Eden says. “You have that in common. Sunday at two, Esther’s house. Liza will send you the address.”
And then she’s gone, disappearing around the side of the house like she didn’t just meddle in her sister’s personal life.
“She seems…” I struggle to find words.
“She’s butting in,” Eliza mutters, obvious affection in her voice. “You don’t have to come. The Storm sisters can be overwhelming.”
“It’s fine,” I hear myself saying, which is strange because I definitely meant to decline. “I like cookies.”
Eliza stares at me for a moment, then shakes her head.
She nods at my tablet, now flashing with alarms for watering the plants. “Still works.”
I begin explaining the wonders of waterproofing and realize something unexpected. The mud on my clothes doesn’t bother me as much as it should. The chaos of this place—goats wandering freely, tools scattered, sisters coming and going—should trigger my anxiety.
Instead, watching Eliza listen intently to my explanation while Cruella chews on my shoelaces, I feel genuine curiosity about what comes next.
The realization overwhelms me to the point that I start sweating. I awkwardly snatch the tablet from Eliza and stomp my feet against the cold. “Well.” I look up at the sky. “You said you need to feed your beasts something other than shoelaces.” I wiggle my foot to dislodge the goat. “I’ll see you at the lab.”
I hurry into my car and get it turned around, but not before catching a glimpse of Eliza Storm’s face, eyes dark with an indecipherable emotion.
7
Eliza
My goats eat like they’re half-starved while I replay Reed’s abrupt visit. One minute we’re having an actual conversation about water-resistant metals—which, okay, was kind of fascinating—and the next he’s practically sprinting to his car like I threatened to brand him.
Men are weird. Rich men are weirder. And, unfortunately, hotter and harder to forget.
By eight, I’ve finished the animal chores and loaded a bag of my best composted goat manure into the truck. It’s a peace offering… sort of. Eden’s always going on about how goat manure is gardening gold. Lower nitrogen than chicken, perfect pH balance, breaks down slow and steady. If Reed’s going to be all scientific about his trees, he’ll probably appreciate quality organic matter.
I get the goats situated at Bramblewood and head north to Reed’s evil lair, singing along to the holiday music on the radio. But only because I’m not hauling Chiron and I can hear things for once. I am not feeling festive. Absolutely never.
The drive to his place takes twenty minutes through neighborhoods that get progressively more corporate. Glass buildings, manicured parking lots, signs advertising “innovative solutions” and “sustainable futures.” By the time I find the Sustainable Innovation Incubator, I’m feeling underdressed in my cleanest overalls and wondering if Reed’s embarrassed to be working with someone who smells farm-fresh.
His greenhouse sits at the end of a row of identical units, distinguished only by a small placard reading Urban Forest Solutions.
I knock on the door, clutching my bag of manure to my chest.
Reed opens it, wearing a fresh button-down shirt and khakis that probably cost more than my monthly feed bill. He clearly showered after our muddy encounter, his hair damp and smelling of expensive shampoo instead of earth and animals.
“You came,” he says, sounding surprised.
“Only to avoid court.” I hold up the bag. “Brought you something.”
His eyes drop to the canvas sack, and I watch his expression shift from curiosity to horror. “Is that…?”
“Goat shit. The good stuff.” I push past him into the greenhouse, immediately overwhelmed by the sterile perfection of everything. It gives sci-fi movie vibes for sure. I clutch at the poo bag. “My sister Eila swears by it. Says it’s better than any chemical fertilizer you can buy.”
“Eliza.” Reed’s voice climbs higher. “This is a sterile environment. I can’t have contaminants?—”
“Contaminants?” I spin around to face him. “This is premium organic matter. My goats eat the highest quality?—”
“I’m sure they do.” Reed holds up both hands in surrender. “But hydroponic systems use super precise nutrient solutions. Adding manure would throw off the entire pH balance, introduce unknown bacteria, contaminate the root systems?—”
