What should be a simple walk to the lobby becomes a comedy of errors as she attempts to taste-test a Victorian side table, gets tangled in her scarf-leash around a potted plant, and somehow manages to headbutt my knee in the process.
"You're supposed to be trained for this," I hiss as she makes a play for the vintage runner carpet."The yoga instructor said you were 'fully socialized for hospitality environments.'"
Buttercup looks at me with an expression that clearly says, "The yoga instructor lies."
By the time we reach the main staircase, I'm reconsidering the wisdom of hosting goat yoga.
Sure, it sounded innovative and Instagram-worthy when I booked it, but that was before I realized that goats are basically four-legged chaos machines with excellent PR.
The lobby stretches below us, all warm wood and flickering firelight from the dying embers in the massive stone hearth.
During the day, it's magical.
At midnight, with a baby goat in tow and my arms full of clothes, it feels like the set of a disaster movie.
I'm halfway down the stairs when Buttercup decides to make a break for it.
The scarf-leash slips from my hand as she bounds down the remaining steps, bleating with what sounds suspiciously like joy.
My bundle of clothes shifts precariously as I lunge after her, and I'm pretty sure I hear something important rip.
"Buttercup, get back here!"
She ignores me completely, of course, and heads straight for the fireplace.Because apparently, nearly extinct embers are exactly what every baby goat dreams of investigating.
I take the last few steps at a near-run, my clothes bundle clutched against my chest like a football."No, no, no!Not the fireplace!"
That's when I see him.
The man I’ve been trying to lure here.The man with enough money to change everything.
The man who’s dating profile I hacked.
Luke Sterling.Blue-eyed and tall and standing near the registration desk.
Looking like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Billionaires Who Clearly Have Their Shit Together."
His dark hair is slightly damp from the rain, his glasses reflect the firelight, and he's holding what appears to be a laptop bag.
For a moment, we just stare at each other.Me in my pajamas, clutching a bundle of clothes while chasing a runaway goat.Him looking like the kind of man who has never, in his entire life, had to fish underwear out of a shrub.
"I..."I start to say something reasonable, something that might explain why I'm in the lobby at midnight with livestock.
That's when my clothes bundle decides to stage its own rebellion.
The whole thing comes apart in my arms like a low-budget magic trick.
Shirts flutter to the floor, my favorite jeans land with a soft thud, and my collection of cartoon-character underwear—including the pair with tiny tacos that say "Let's Taco 'Bout It"—scatters across the hardwood like confetti at the world's most embarrassing party.
Luke's eyes track the trajectory of my Wonder Woman boy-shorts as they land directly at his feet.
Buttercup chooses this moment to add her own commentary, releasing a triumphantbaathat echoes through the lobby like she's announcing her conquest of the inn.
"Well," I say, my voice pitched about three octaves higher than normal."This is not how I expected tonight to go."
Luke bends down and carefully picks up the Wonder Woman underwear, holding them with the kind of clinical detachment you'd use for evidence at a crime scene.
"These are yours, I assume?"
