Chapter 6
Chaos v. Compartmentalizing
Austin
After I woke up and got ready for the day, the first thing I noticed was the change in the silence of the house.
A place this size creaks and sighs like an old ship, but this morning, it was getting to know its new inhabitant.
Different from the last owner. A shift in rhythm.
A rhythm I’ll have to learn, map, and trust. Floorboards contracting in the cool.
Inspector shifting his weight on the windowsill. The rooster welcoming the dawn.
Then—WHUMP.
A muffled gasp follows, high and unmistakably Milly. Powder drifts down the hallway like smoke.
When I round the corner, I find her in the kitchen, mid-battle with a mixing bowl. She’s frozen, blinking through lashes caked white. Flour streaks her hair, clings to her sweater, and even coats her shoes.
For a second, I just stand there, suppressing a laugh. Watching her blink, then laugh at herself, she shakes her head, and flour falls to the floor.
Danger in the shadows, Penny said. Protect her. But nothing in my training prepared me for this: a woman so alive in her mistakes that she was unstoppable.
I step closer, boots sliding on the flour-slick floor. She lifts her chin, eyes wide, lashes dusted pale. Her grin wobbles somewhere between hilarity and apology.
“Don’t say it,” she warns.
Instead, I lift a hand. With the edge of my thumb, I brush flour from her cheek.
I should’ve stepped back. Instead, I let my hand hover there one heartbeat longer.
She goes still. My fingers take their time, brushing over her soft skin, lingering long enough to leave the warmth of her cheek echoing against my fingertips.
My heart hammers, urging me to lean in, and I could.
I feel myself moving closer, my eyes darting between her lips and her eyes.
Her gaze meets mine, bright and unguarded, and for a second, I forget the mission. Forget the dangers Penny hinted at.
Then my training kicks in, and want and restraint war inside me. Restraint wins. I step back and smile at her wide, hopeful eyes.
Want is a dangerous thing. It lingers. It leaves a taste of what if.
“Better,” I murmur, my voice low. “What happened?”
She laughs, shaking her head. “In the great war between me and sourdough, I think we know who’s winning.”
I want to tell her she isn’t losing. That she’s just messy brilliance still finding her way. But I don’t. Emotions are surfacing, but the mission claws at the back of my thoughts, a constant reminder.
I grab a rag from the sink and set to work cleaning the chaos. She joins me, shaking flour from her hair, muttering and laughing at herself. The domestic ease of it hits me subtly. We move around each other without thinking, shoulder to shoulder, passing rags and bowls.
An hour later, she measures out more flour, carefully this time, and I catch myself watching. She’s trying. A rhythm of instinct, of feel, inherited maybe from the aunt who left her this place.
She glances sideways at me, mouth twitching. “You organize the spice jars, don’t you?”
Her laugh bursts bright, cutting through the powdery air. “Called it.”
I catalog the scene like I catalog everything: the oven door hinge squeak, Milly’s system that works for her even if it threatens my sanity. I tell myself it’s just another environment to control. But when I catch her humming under her breath as she kneads, I know it’s more than that.
I take a picture in my head, not the counters, not the mess, but her. Flour dusting her hair, grin cheerful, eyes bright. For a man who lives by records and systems, it’s a detail I know I’ll carry with me.
Milly frowns at the recipe card, lips moving as she reads. “It says, ‘knead until it feels right.’ What does that even mean? If you’ve never made bread, how do you know what ‘right’ is supposed to feel like?”
She dips her hands into the flour. “Feels right” is vague, and vague doesn’t belong in her world of lists and sticky notes.
Speaking of sticky notes, half a dozen are scattered across the counter: Call Browne. Check goat fence. Figure out how to bake bread. I gather them into a single neat stack and place them by the toaster. She glances at me, amused.
“Those are my reminders.”
“They’re still reminders. Just… stacked.”
She laughs, shaking her head. “You can’t stack chaos.” She shakes her head again. “You’d alphabetize them if I let you.”
I smirk.
The dough comes together slowly and sticky.
She kneads it and forms it into a ball, then sets the timer for the final rest and starts cleaning up the kitchen a little.
Brows drawn in concentration, I catch myself watching the freckles across her cheekbones.
When she looks up, her cheeks are flushed.
Inspector leaps onto a chair, tail flicking, his gaze fixed on the counter like a critic.
When the timer goes off, Milly looks at the dough with doubt. “All right,” she says, dusting her hands. “Moment of truth.”
She puts the dough in the oven and bakes it for the 25 minutes of what she calls a “point of no return.” The scent fills the kitchen with warmth and nostalgia, a smell I haven’t breathed in since my grandmother was alive.
Patience isn’t one of Milly’s virtues; she paces, taps the oven door every few minutes, and keeps flicking on the oven light to watch it.
“Why don’t you feed the chickens while you wait?” I try to distract her.
“I can’t. Not until it comes out. I don’t want to miss the timer. What if it burns?” I can see her stress.
“Ok, fine. You can still hear the timer from the living room, right? Why don’t we move the couch like you wanted?”
Milly thinks about this for a second, then concedes. Until the timer goes off, and she jumps.
“It’s done, it’s done, it’s done.” She shimmies and dances. She removes the loaf from the oven, and the crust crackles. It’s a beautiful shade of golden brown and smells divine. I smile and nod when she looks at me.
“Now we wait, again.” She sighs and looks slightly defeated.
“Nope, we work. Come on. While the bread cools, let’s feed the chickens. There is no timer for cooling.” I tug her outside, and instantly her frown turns to a smile.
Thirty minutes later, when I can’t distract her any longer, we are back in the kitchen. She saws off a slice, bites her lip, and holds it out to me with exaggerated ceremony. “To the bravest taste tester.”
I take it. Chew, careful not to grimace. It’s a brick masquerading as bread.
Her eyes narrow. “Well?”
I swallow. “I’m thinking that it could break a tooth.”
She gasps in mock offense, her mouth parting, but her eyes are shimmering with laughter. “You’re supposed to lie! Say it’s rustic. Say it’s… something.”
“I know, but rustic implies that it’s edible.”
She hurls a towel at me. It lands on my shoulder. Laughter bursts from her, and the sting of failure disappears.
Behind her, clatter comes from outside. Sherlock bleats, followed by the unmistakable clang of metal.
Milly spins toward the window. “Was that—”
“Your goat,” I answer, already moving. It’s the second gate he’s broken since we’ve been here.
Outside, Sherlock struts across the yard, horns high, as if he’d won.
I narrow my eyes at the goat and think to myself, The battle continues.
A few minutes later, I’m jimmy-rigging the gate until I can buy a new lock and fencing in town.
I crouch, refit the hinges, and tighten the latch.
Sherlock’s chewing on a rope he’s liberated from somewhere, eyes locked on me.
I can almost hear him say, Challenge accepted.
Milly leans on the porch rail, arms crossed, eyes following my every move.
“You’re handy,” she says softly.
I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”
Her smile lingers, then she pushes off the rail. “Round two,” she declares, clapping her hands. “I refuse to let a recipe beat me. But maybe I’ll try French bread instead.” She smiles and darts back into the house with a jump in her step.
Light filters through her hair, catching leftover flour dust. I follow her inside, more curious to see how this one will go.
When I cross the threshold, I pause. Apparently, Milly had decided to either forego the bread-making for today, or she’d forgotten what she was doing and lost her train of thought, which I’ve noticed happens more than not.
“You know, I was thinking,” she bites her lip and scrunches her face. “Where should these go?” She holds up a couple of coffee mugs.
I look in the trash, and the sourdough loaf is sitting on top with a few crumpled paper towels. She’d dropped the idea of the perfect loaf for today, and we are now off to plan B. Which I’m gathering is to organize the kitchen again.
She’s asked me about the mugs a dozen times already, or where to put utensils, pans, even the salt and pepper. It’s unnecessary, but I think it’s her way of threading me into the fabric of this house, whether she realizes it or not.
“In the cupboard,” I say, nodding. “Bottom shelf, left side.”
She halts, one mug dangling from each hand, and plants her hips against the counter. “That’s so boring.”
“How is shelf placement boring?”
Her eyes narrow, lips twitching as if holding back a grin. “Because mugs have moods. Early-morning, nostalgic, conquer the world. If you’re going to live here, you need to respect the system.”
I arch a brow. “Conquer the world, huh? Never pictured you so bloodthirsty.”
“Yeah, conquer the world,” she answers instantly. “Maybe not bloodthirsty exactly, just allergic to stupidity.”
I rub at my temple like it pains me, though truth be told, it doesn’t. She’s oddly disarming, the way she stands there unguarded and entirely herself. My gaze slips, traitorous, to her mouth, the curve of her lips tugging upward as if she already knows she’s winning.
“That’s chaos disguised as structure,” I mutter.
“Maybe,” she says, and the giggle she tacks on pulls heat low in my chest. “But at least it’ll be cheerful.”
Later, she scatters her sticky notes back across the counter again. Reminders or to-do’s. I corral them back into a neat stack at the corner, where they won’t get lost in her chaos.
“Did you just stack my notes again?” she asks, mock glare aimed squarely at me.
“They’ll be easier to find this way.”
“They’ll be easier to forget that way,” she counters, tugging the stack back toward her.
Just before dinner, Cassie arrives with a plate of cookies swimming in green icing and a grin that fills the room.
I keep my post at the counter, allowing the girls their space and listening as Cassie explains why the icing is green.
They start swapping stories of job horrors.
Cassie tells a story of a student who ate glitter on a bet, and Milly tells Cassie about Nancy and her glass office.
Their laughter rises and falls in easy sync.
It’s natural, unforced. Something I want but can’t let myself reach for.
Then Milly says it, testing the words. “Maybe I could start a little clinic. Just for fun. Like a little pop-up. People here must need a vet, right?”
Cassie’s eyes light up. “Yes. A pop-up would be fun. I can bring some kids from the school clubs; you know, extra credit and stuff. They can man the lemonade stand, and the art club or the theater arts club can design the flyers. I’m already in.
I can even talk to the principal, see if she has any ideas. ”
Milly beams, her cheeks pink. I make a note of Milly’s excitement silently because Penny would want me to. She’d want Milly to find her place here among the town and make friends.
Later, after Cassie leaves, Milly lingers at the porch railing. She watches the chickens scratch in the dirt. Sherlock is perched like a sentry on the tractor again. He’s like Houdini. Milly glances my way.
“It’s… a lot. All of this. And you, here, doing numbers for a house that probably hasn’t balanced a budget since Reagan was president. Don’t you ever wonder why Penny picked you?”
Her tone is light, but I couldn’t tell her the truth—not all of it, at least.
“We’d met Penny a few times and had some mutual business associates.
She was always so animated. You’re a lot like her, you know?
You both have a passion for life and adventure.
Maybe she chose me because she knew I’d help bring balance to the chaos she left behind,” I say simply.
Not a lie, but not the whole truth either, hopefully a happy medium.
She nods, though she doesn’t look too convinced.
She drifts toward the barn a few minutes later. I follow at a distance and pause at the threshold. The air is thick with hay, leather, and the steady breath of horses in their stalls.
A black gelding nudges my shoulder. For a second, I’m ten again on a farm in the countryside, my horse trotting too fast while the trainer tells me to tighten the reins and push my heels down. It’s a memory I’d shoved into the recesses of my mind. I skinned my knees when I fell off that day.
Milly strokes a mare’s neck, her laughter low and threaded with comfort. She’s known this world longer than she remembers.
When she finally heads back inside, I circle the yard. That’s when I see them: muddy boot prints by the shed. Fresh. Not a woman’s shoe. A man’s boot, size 12. The gate latch wasn’t locked. They weren’t professionals. This was sloppy.
I crouch, phone in hand, and take two photos: one close, one wide. Documentation is key.
Through the kitchen window, Milly’s shadow passes, unaware of the dangers outside. She’s finding her place here. I’m finding security breaches.
And I can’t tell her why.
The wood in the house creaks, as if Penny herself is still pacing the halls. Upstairs, Milly’s footsteps cross her room. A drawer slides open, then shuts. The faint hum of her voice drifts down, a tune half-remembered, much like the song in the piano.
I make my final sweep of the house. Porch lights on.
Deadbolt set. Windows latched. Each check goes in the notebook, columned and timed, as natural as breathing.
The list grows longer: muddy prints, unlocked gate, missing wrench from the shed.
Alone, none of it screams danger. Together, they whisper trouble.
Back in my room, I sit on the edge of the bed and let the day fall off me, piece by piece. My boots line up by the wall, my watch sits on the dresser, the notebook closed. I should be at ease. The perimeter is secure, the house quiet. But my thoughts don’t stop.
Her laugh. The image of me brushing flour from her cheek this morning, our eyes meeting. She’d been flushed. Most people hate the spotlight when they’re off-balance. Not Milly. She faces the world head-on, even when it knocks her down.
That openness is dangerous. Every instinct I’ve built tells me to stay detached, stay sharp. Protect her from a distance. And yet, I linger in her orbit, taking in more than I should.
I stretch out on the bed and turn toward the window. Outside, Sherlock stands by the tractor, his favorite spot, ears flicking, a shadow against the moonlight. His presence is oddly reassuring, Milly’s own guard already on duty.