“Reece,” Laken’s mother started, “does that thing ever poop on you?”
Confused, I gawked. “I’m sorry?” She pointed a dainty finger toward the baxlin.Oh.“Oh.” My chest lightened with a laugh. “No, he’s trained.”
She squinted with parted lips, shock bordering on disbelief, and shook her head to refocus. “Well, I don’t know how you do it, dear. I’d fall through the soles of my shoes.”
“Oh, I would have already if Laken hadn’t been here to help. Trust me, the hellblazers would’ve already roasted me alive.” I spoke the truth; Laken had truly saved my ass. More than once.
Her smile, light and warm, sent an uneasy tingling sense to my toes. Age created crinkles on the edges of her eyes and lips from where she smiled so often. “I’m glad you two have each other. Makes it easier to survive the days.” She nodded and went on about tablecloths.
Under the table, Laken’s leg brushed mine and heat immediately flooded my face.Are we at the stage of being affectionate in front of others? How do things work when you get back with your ex after years? Gods, are we in the honeymoon phase?More importantly, did I feel ready to be bombarded by the town gossip?
Small-town problems.
Faye sat across from us with a straight, stiff spine, and determination enveloped her as she darted around the paper. Glancing over to see what she’d written, my stomach knotted. She had an entire map of Honey Brooke’s town square and field, where the event would be held. Along with a to-do list, a table with who’d be bringing what, and where it’d be set up.
Drowning in a terrified daze, I stared at Faye Augustus and it hit me: Faye Augustus was everything I wasn’t. Kind, gentle, patient, nurturing, organized, thoughtful.
Compared to her, I was a raccoon in the garbage.
The meeting went on and on. And on.
Ruth would cover baked goods: blackberry pie, lemon pie, and brownies. Goldie would cover finger foods. Between the lot of them, enough tables, chairs, and lights were kept in the town’s community center, aka the theater nobody used.
“Yes, so, I know everyone is invited, but I’m trying to think of who can set up booths beside each other. Eveline will want a spot for her art, but if Fred sets up next to her, it’s going to drive her bonkers—though his enthusiasm for her does drive up sales, so I’ll let that slide and say it was an accident.”
I side-eyed Laken with a worried, partially frightened expression. Not a person alive could plan a better event than Faye. She thrived when telling others what to do, where to be, and how to be—one of the reasons she made a great teacher.
“So you think it’ll work? You think people will reallydonate and help if they can?” My fingers nervously tapped the table, tipping it with my nails.
With just over one week left till my debts were due, the threat of losing my home felt heavier and heavier. I’d need the fundraiser and market to pull in thousands, and I didn’t quite know if that’d be possible.
I didn’t know what Faye saw on my face, but hers softened. “I think so.” She hesitated. “I hear a lot of talk in town”—we know—“and many are thankful to have you about selling healing creams again. It makes a difference.” She nodded. “Don’t get me wrong, they had their concerns, asking Maeve if she could fireproof the town.”Excuse me!“But they don’t want to lose this place, either; it’s part of Honey Brooke.”
Offering a believable chuckle, I pretended my stomach didn’t hurt from the idea of it not working.You gotta risk it for the biscuit, right?Not that I had much of a choice; perhapsriskwasn’t the right word. It’s more like,fight like your life depends on it or give up and lose everything. Yeah, that fit more accurately.
Faye gathered her things and made for the door, where Laken met her. Already checked out, I laid my head on the table and debated smashing it into the surface, but before I could, their conversation caught my attention. Like a puppet controlled by awkward conversations, my head yanked up at the sound of “So does this mean it’s official now? Can I tell Goldie?”
My eyes bugged and my cheeks inflated with everything I held back. Thanking the Gods Laken stood at the doorand not me, I relished his gentle “Tell them what you want, Mother.” Who was I to be kicking my feet and blushing?
“Oh, joy! You know I’m terrible at keeping my mouth shut.” She grinned and patted his chest. “Oh! Before I forget, mine and your father’s thirtieth anniversary is coming up. We’re having an anniversary party next weekend!”
Laken assured her we’d be there, they said their goodbyes, he shut the door, and he stalked over toward me. From where I’d laid my head down, he bent over to kiss the back of my head. “Come on, we got goats to milk.”
Grunting, I mourned our little almost moment. Almost sweet.
I stood from my chair, the wooden feet scraping the floor. Shrinking into my skin at the sound, I peeked through one eye to catch his stare aimed at me. I hummed, “So how’s your ass?”
Laken peered at me over his shoulder and frowned as he thought. “As good as new.”
Rolling my eyes, I drew my hand back and gave his safe cheek a good slap—then hauled mine outside. Spooked a bit from my hurried sprinting, the chickensbocked, their feathers jumping around. My feet pounded as I ran, knowing he chased me. Taking a right and darting for Finneas and Finnigan’s enclosure, my smile grew too wide, and, as expected—a firm arm wrapped around my waist.
“If we didn’t have goats to milk, McCarthen…” The trouble in his voice sent a chill down my spine. Too bad.
Sitting on a child-size wooden stool in front of Finnigan’sudders, it took effort from me not to scowl. Nonetheless, I grabbed the udder and began my milking duties. Not that it was weird; it was a texture thing, like squeezing a warm, limp, raw sausage filled with juices.Squeeze.Squeeze.
If we didn’t have dassin goat milk, we couldn’t make the healing cream. And if we couldn’t make healing cream, we couldn’t make money at the market. And if we didn’t make money at the market, we couldn’t pay our debts. Then we’d be a sad, starving, and homeless little bunch. So I squeezed the limp sausage.
Laken sat next to me, milking Finneas. His hair dangled in front of his face, and it had to be the utmost inappropriate time to be staring at his forearms under his scrunched-up shirt, bunched around his elbows, but a girl can’t help it. I did have the decency in me to look away—after he caught me. Sensing his ego rising too high behind a cheeky grin, I rolled my eyes. “Why are you so good at milking goats?” I said snidely, nodding to his hands working seamlessly.
