She padded across the carpet to the door, feeling the baby goat’s warmth against her chest. She opened the doorjust as Ethan raised his hand to knock again. He stood there, holding a basket of laundry.
He blinked once, then spun around so fast she nearly dropped the goat. “Jesus, Baxter!”
Honey looked down, wondering why he was reacting so strongly to a woman in her pajamas. He had three children, for goodness’ sake.
Oh no.
No no no no no.
Undershirt was generous. This was a camisole, with straps far too flimsy and fabric that clung in all the wrong places. And her underwear—god help her…
She slammed the door with an audible thwack.
“I’m sorry,” she called out. “I don’t have anything clean.”
Honey had forgotten she hadn’t yet dealt with the laundry situation, and the rest of her clothing was hardly suitable for sleeping in after her long day working at the wishing well.
It was a failure on every level. Honey prided herself on her professionalism and her preparedness. She kept backup tights in her glove compartment. She had lint rollers in every purse. And she never ever answered her door unless she was completely dressed.
But apparently, the orchard had broken her.
“I—uh…I have your things here.” His voice sounded muffled, like he was still facing away even though the door was shut. “Some of it was beyond saving, so I got you a couple shirts. I didn’t know your size. So, anyway. I’ll just leave this out here.”
There was a soft thunk as the basket hit the floor, then the quiet retreat of his footsteps.
For a moment, Honey pressed her forehead against thedoor. Her face burned. Her chest burned. Even the goat in her arms seemed to be judging her, ears flicking back and nostrils flaring in disapproval.
“Well…” she muttered.
She cracked the door open and pulled the basket inside, setting the goat down gently as she examined the contents.
On top were three soft, new cotton T-shirts, tags still attached, in varying sizes and colors—white, navy, heather gray. All simple, but clearly chosen with care. Beneath them, her clothes had been laundered and neatly folded with surprisingly crisp lines. Even her socks were paired. Her bras and underwear were tucked discreetly at the bottom, bundled in a shirt, like he’d tried to give her a measure of privacy.
Honey stared at the basket longer than was strictly necessary.
The thought of him handling her undergarments should have horrified her. But it didn’t. Not exactly.
She shook her head to clear it.
“Get a grip,” she whispered to herself. “This is unacceptable.”
Still, she chose the softest of the shirts—navy, oversized—and paired it with a pair of pants. She twisted her hair up into a bun and gave herself a brisk nod in the mirror.
“Professional. Detached. Collected.”
She stepped into the kitchen to find Ethan sitting alone at the table, already sipping from a mug that said World’s Okayest Farmer in peeling block letters.
He looked up at her, did a quick once-over, and—bless him—said nothing about the earlier incident.
Honey, however, was acutely aware of the fact that she was wearing a shirt he had chosen. That he had folded herunderwear. That, for one split second this morning, he had seen so much of her.
But she smiled anyway.
She cleared her throat. “Your goat is, frankly, a menace.” She set him down on the floor, and he trotted away, his little hooves clicking on the tile.
“So are you.” Ethan narrowed his eyes at her over his coffee. “Brooke told me that you were teaching them how to wish ‘properly.’”
“I merely reminded her that magic requires precision,” Honey said primly, brushing goat hair off her pants.
