She snorts. “You? I’m the one who just got headbutted into a flower bucket.”
I blink. “You what?”
She gestures to her soaked dress. “Fell backward. Knocked over the whole thing. Hosed myself off. It’s been a day.”
She’s still laughing. And now, despite myself, I feel it too—that twitch at the edge of my mouth, a laugh that I try to bite back, even though I already know I won’t succeed.
Because somehow, this ridiculous mess? This feral goat, the mud, and this woman who showed up and turned my house into a set for an SNL skit?
It’s the most alive this place has felt in years—a small, annoying part of my brain supplies.
Even if I hate it. Even if I don’t have time for it.
Poppy exhales, hands on her hips, eyes turned toward the wreckage. Her hair is stuck to her neck in damp curls. She’s exhausted. Covered in grass.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
She turns her head slowly. “What?”
I gesture vaguely toward the house. “I’ve got sandwiches. From this place in town that doesn’t screw them up.”
She blinks like I just offered her a diamond necklace.
“You’re offering me food?”
I sigh. “I’m not trying to poison you. It’s just a sandwich.”
“And you’re not going to follow it up with a list of venue restrictions or goat-related fines?”
“I can’t promise that.”
She smiles, small and real.
“Give me five minutes,” she says, already heading toward the guest cottage.
Five minutes later, I knock once on the guest cottage door, holding a brown paper bag and two bottles of sparkling water under my arm. The goat is nowhere to be seen, which is either a good sign or the start of a horror movie.
The door creaks open.
She’s changed. A cotton sweatshirt, shorts, hair pulled up, face still flushed. She looks… softer. Less feral. But only just.
“You really brought me dinner?” she asks.
“It’s a sandwich.”
She opens the door wider. “Come in before George eats you.”
“George?” I ask, stepping through the door.
“It’s what I’m calling the goat now.”
I nod like it makes perfect sense.
Inside, it’s cozy and smells faintly like vanilla, her, and the lemon cleaner I used before she arrived. Her things are neatly stacked—her planner, an emergency sewing kit, a notebook covered in sticky tabs. There’s a floral-print mug on the windowsill and a playlist humming softly from her phone. A couple of candles are burning on the coffee table. I’ve never seen this place appear quite so lived in.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I pass her the bag.
