“Genetics are a hell of a thing. Though I got Dad’s stubbornness too, which is probably why I’m here making terrible decisions with you three instead of lying low until the scandal dies down.”
“Speaking of terrible decisions,” Boone says, standing up to clear plates, “we should probably talk about what happens next. The whole town thinks we’re having some kind of torrid affair.”
“Aren’t we?” I ask.
“Torrid implies sleazy,” Wyatt points out. “We’re not sleazy. We’re something else.”
“Vigorous?” Jesse suggests.
“Athletic?” Boone adds.
“Definitely athletic,” I agree. “My thighs are still sore from last night’s gymnastics.”
“Just your thighs?” Jesse grins.
“Among other things.”
We’re all looking at each other with that particularheat that means breakfast is about to be abandoned when we hear it, the unmistakable sound of hooves on wood, followed by the door banging open.
“For fuck’s sake,” I mutter.
Rita prances into the kitchen like she owns the place, a piece of rope trailing from her collar, my dad’s John Deere cap in her mouth, and what appears to be my favorite bra hanging from one horn.
“Is that—” Boone starts.
“Yes.”
“How did she?—”
“I have no idea.”
“When did you?—”
“I don’t know, okay? She’s like a magician but with underwear.”
Rita drops the cap at Wyatt’s feet like a cat presenting a dead mouse, then helps herself to the pancake Jesse carelessly left too close to the edge of his plate. She chews thoughtfully, syrup dripping from her beard, then notices the bacon situation.
“Your goat has a lingerie fetish,” Jesse observes.
“Your goat’s a kleptomaniac,” Wyatt corrects.
“Your goat’s a genius,” Boone declares, giving Rita a scratch behind the ears. “Look at her, living her best life.”
“My goat’s going to be goat curry if she doesn’t start respecting boundaries,” I threaten, but Rita’s already investigating the burnt bacon, finding it perfectly acceptable for her palate.
“So,” Boone says, clearly trying to salvage something from this morning, “we were talking about what happens next.”
“Before the goat invasion,” Jesse adds.
“Right. The town thinks we’re all...” I wave my hand vaguely.
“Fucking?” Boone supplies helpfully.
“I was going to say ‘involved,’ but yeah, that works too.”
“They’re not wrong,” Jesse points out.
“They don’t know that for sure. Right now, it’s just speculation and blurry photos.”
