Chapter 4
Finn
HIT ME WITH YOUR BEST SHOT BY PAT BENATAR
The morning’s quiet, and sawdust drifts through the sunbeams, catching the light as it falls.
The steady hum of my sander fills the shop, low and grounding, vibrating through the workbench beneath my hands.
The place smells like cedar, pine, and coffee, the scents settling into every corner the way they always do.
Half-finished projects wait on every surface.
A dining table for Mrs. Kline sits clamped beside me, its edges smooth from hours of work.
A pair of reclaimed shelves lean against the far wall, still smelling faintly of the old barn they came from.
My measuring tape lies open on the bench.
A handful of screws scattered beside it.
A battered tin of wood conditioner sits next to my elbow, oily fingerprints staining the lid.
This is the place I can go to where everything makes sense. Wood tells the truth if you listen. It shows you where it wants to bend, where it refuses to, where it needs patience and softness instead of strength. I love making new things and I love seeing it all come together.
I like staying busy and trying to keep my thoughts from racing straight to Rowan every five minutes.
And this morning, the hum of the sander is loud enough to almost drown out the thought of her. Almost.
I’m focused, trying not to think about Rowan and how great she looked yesterday.
Then I think about Mayor Sammy and the bullshit he’s causing.
Man, I wouldn’t want to be that guy right now.
And I can’t wait to see what she comes up with.
Rowan isn’t built for a man who wants quiet.
She’s full of heat, momentum, a storm that doesn’t ask permission before rolling in.
She loves too big, feels too deeply, and moves like she’s always chasing her dreams. And I love her for it.
Every sharp edge, spark, and undercurrent. I love everything about Rowan.
The door to the shop opens, and I nod to my brother, who steps in and slides on safety goggles that hang by the door. He knows I keep strict rules in the wood shop.
“Any idea why I’m delivering goats to the front of the mayor’s office at City Hall?” Remy asks as he leans against the doorway, holding his phone, smirking like this is about to be good.
I stop and blink. “Goats?”
“Yep,” Remy confirms looking like he’s holding back a grin.
I wipe my hands on my jeans, already smiling. “No idea, but I definitely want to see this.” There’s only one person who would come up with a plan that involves goats and the mayor’s office.
Half an hour later, we’re parked across the street from City Hall, watching chaos unfold. Goats are wandering across the lawn, bleating and munching on every piece of greenery they can find. People have gathered, phones out, laughing and pointing.
And right in the middle of it is Rowan. She’s in black leggings and a dark purple tank top, her hair twisted up all sexy on top of her head.
She’s standing on a yoga mat and laughing with Ivy and our mom, both of whom are already stretching out on mats as well.
About a dozen others are positioned on mats across the front lawn of City Hall.
They stretch and pet goats that walk around, curiously eating everything in their path.
“Oh my God,” I mutter. “She didn’t.”
“She did,” Remy says, chuckling. “Goat yoga on the front lawn of City Hall. Maybe he’ll approve her bogus permit now.”
Rowan and her sisters always joke about doing goat yoga and she actually made it happen.
The goats bleat like they’re cheering her on. Rowan calls out to the small crowd that’s forming. “Welcome to Wisteria Cove’s very first of many Goat Yoga Pop-Ups! This is where we’ll be hosting our classes until the mayor’s office approves my permit for my studio.”
I laugh. “She’s out of her mind.”
“Yep,” Remy says. “Mayor Sammy’s gonna be pissed.”
The goats climb on the mats, and one sniffs Ivy’s back, tickling her as she’s in downward dog.
Our mom laughs so hard she nearly falls over.
Rowan steadies her, grinning, and when she bends to pet one of the goats, her tank top rides up just enough to show a sliver of tanned summer kissed skin. My brain practically short-circuits.
Jesus. I feel it sharp and sudden, heat pooling low. Best friends shouldn’t give you boners. I yell it silently in my head, Stop it right now.
The mayor bursts out the front door, his face the color of a tomato. “What’s going on?”
Rowan straightens, her expression perfectly calm. “Goat yoga. Isn’t it great? We’re here every day until my permit is approved.”
He sputters, his tie crooked, his voice rising an octave. “You can’t do this on city property!”
One goat nibbles on the flowers by the steps. Another poops right next to the mayor’s shiny shoes. I start uncontrollably laughing, no longer able to hold it in, and so does Remy.
Rowan crosses her arms and says to the mayor, “Where else am I supposed to do it?”
“You owe me plants!” he shouts, waving his arms as another goat sneaks past him and chomps on the flowers hanging over the edge of a pot.
Rowan nods her head, grinning. “Good thing I have plenty to replace them. Though honestly, your taxpayer-funded paycheck could probably cover your own plants, or, you know, whatever else you’re spending it on these days.”
I don’t miss the subtle glance in Marilyn’s direction, or Sammy’s panicked sputtering, though everyone else seems too distracted by the goat army.
The goat bleats indignantly, clearly offended, and Rowan can’t help laughing. She watches Mayor Briggs flail as he tries to shoo the herd away valiantly protecting his foliage.
He glares at the herd, stomping, flailing, muttering, “I’ll… I’ll make sure you regret this!”
Marilyn hovers behind him, fussing. “Sammy, calm down! It’s fine, really!” She tugs at his sleeve, but he waves her off, spinning in a circle as he stomps toward the office door, muttering under his breath, “This isn’t over, Ms. Maren…not by a long shot!”
Rowan watches him retreat, chuckling. Today, she definitely won. Tomorrow may be another story.
“No need for threats!” Rowan calls after him, voice sugary sweet. “See you tomorrow, Sammy!”
Remy looks at me smugly. “She’s gonna get arrested.”
“Nah,” I say, but the word barely comes out. I can’t look away from her. She’s standing there like she just walked out of a battle she won. Her cheeks are flushed, eyes bright, chin lifted in that way that says she has finally had enough and refuses to be pushed one inch further.
My heart pounds hard enough to shake something loose in my chest. God, she looks unstoppable. Fierce. Beautiful. Untouchable. The kind of woman who could topple an empire before breakfast and then show up with homemade teas and salves like nothing happened.
One of the goats lets out a loud, offended bleat behind us. Rowan rolls her eyes like she has conquered both corrupt politicians and livestock in the same hour. Of course she has. She’s Rowan.
I swallow, trying to find my voice again. “But if she does,” I manage, breath catching a little, “I’m definitely going to be the idiot who bails her out.”
She laughs, quick and bright, and something hot flickers low in my stomach. She has no idea how incredible she looks right now. How powerful. How much I want to pull her into my arms and tell her she deserves better than every person who ever tried to mess with her.
Another goat headbutts a tree for no reason at all, and Rowan turns toward the chaos with that exasperated little smile she gets when the world is falling apart but she refuses to let it win.
And standing here watching her, I realize something that makes my pulse trip.
I would bail her out every time. And I would fight beside her.
I would choose her, again and again, even when she is charging into City Hall like a warrior queen. Especially then.
She glances across the lawn, catches my eye, and gives me a little wave, that smug, witchy smile curving her lips and my throat goes dry.
“Mmmhmm,” I mutter under my breath. “Totally screwed.”
On my way home from work, I drive past the back of Rowan’s shop and see that her truck isn’t there. The place looks closed up and quiet which means she’s probably at the cottage working on her flowers and plants.
I take the turn down Honeysuckle Street toward her little rental on the edge of town, the one that’s half greenhouse, half chaos.
It’s like a little jungle that makes complete sense to Rowan.
The air cools as I pull up, headlights sweeping across the yard that’s been turned into a garden that covers every inch of the property.
The house leans a little to the left, paint peeling, porch boards soft enough to buckle.
Most people would call it a dump. She calls it her happy place.
Her lights are on, warm and golden through the window.
I park and get out, the smell of damp soil hitting me right away.
She’s there, surrounded by flowers that seem to bloom just for her, hair piled on top of her head, wearing a faded, ripped up Def Leppard T-shirt with holes and a stain near the hem and dirt on her cheek.
She’s humming something under her breath and looks totally in her element right now.
I stare at her long enough to make it weird if she catches me, so I grab a pair of pruning shears off the worn wooden table and step beside her without a word.
She glances up, smiles, and keeps working.
She doesn’t need to ask why I’m there. I’ve done this with her more times than I can count.
We move in rhythm, snipping stems and pulling wilted leaves, cleaning up the containers she likes to rearrange around the small yard.
“Mark still hasn’t fixed the roof?” I ask, nodding toward the sagging corner.
She snorts. “Mark Briggs doesn’t fix anything. I’m pretty sure this place is held together by your fixes and duct tape.”