She clears her throat nervously and unfolds. “I’m looking for—”
The lambicorn bleats and she gasps. “Itisa lambicorn! I saw it from the car. Where did you get it?”
Her eyes flash up to me. They’re hazel—gold and brown. Warm.
Before I can answer, she shoves the mess of papers into my hands, picks up the lambicorn, and hugs it. “She is so sweet. Is it a she?”
“No idea. It just showed up.”
“Where?”
“In the woods. It’s yours if you want it.”
She rubs her cheek against its head. “Awwwww. You are so sweet.” The sheep closes its eyes, clearly enjoying the affection. “I’ve heard they imprint on one person and that becomes their mom.”
“This is your lucky day, because it looks like it’s imprinting on you.”
The woman grins at me again, and I find my own lips tipping skyward, all thoughts of my mom forgotten. She puts the lambicorn down and gives its head another stroke.
“Let’s see who it goes to.” She steps away and the lambicorn pads over to me.
Great.
“The lambi has spoken. You are her new daddy.”
I rub my cheek. “It’ll be the first time someone’s called me that.”
“That’s good.” Then she quickly adds, “Unless you want someone to call you daddy. If that’s the case, then I take back my previous statement.”
“No one’s calling me daddy. You’re good. I mean, I don’t know if you’re good, and when I say that, I’m not trying to be suggestive. I just met you, obviously. I have no idea if you’re good.Wait.Does it feel like I’m digging an actual hole with my mouth, or is it just me?”
She laughs, and our gazes latch for a beat. She looks away first, and when she does, my pulse skips in a way I haven’t experienced in a long time.
I’ve been so focused on the resort and, before that, the competition with Pane that there hasn’t been time for stopping to smell the roses.
Some people might say I’ve buried myself in work to avoid other things (looking at you, Mom). But it’s almost impossible for outsiders to understand the burden that comes with the last name Maddox.
Failure is not an option.
But this sensation—feeling my heart like this—is good and, sadly, foreign.
I plow my fingers through my hair, trying to tamp down this sensation swirling in my rib cage. “But really, lambicorns and construction sites don’t mix.”
“Not unless you want them to,” she tells me. “If you want anything to work, it will. All it takes is a little commitment.”
“Is that a poster with a cat on it?”
“Sounds like you’re an expert. You must have one in that trailer of yours.”
“I may allow a lot of things, but I draw the line at cat posters.”
“Too bad. I’m a sucker for them.” Our gazes lock again and hold a beat too long. She breaks first. “Even if you don’t believe it, I bet you’d be a great dad to this little guy.”
A great dad.
Those three words encase my chest in ice.
“If you only knew,” I mutter bitterly, and curse myself because she wasn’t supposed to hear that.
