Chapter 9 Eliza
Eliza
Reed calls while I’m mucking out the goat shelter, which means I answer with my phone tucked between my shoulder and ear while scraping questionable substances off concrete.
“I know you’re probably busy,” he says without preamble, “but would you let me buy you lunch? As a thank you for last night.”
I pause mid-scrape. “You don’t owe me lunch for helping with your lights.”
“Maybe not, but I could use a pep talk before tonight’s presentation.
” His voice carries that tight edge I’m starting to recognize as Reed trying not to sound anxious.
“And I was thinking we could go to the Christmas market downtown. I know some vendors there, and after seeing what your goats do to regular plants, I believe in them when it comes to weeds on my friends’ properties. ”
“You want to pimp out my goats at a Christmas market?”
“I want to introduce you to people who need your services,” he corrects.
“There’s a guy who’s converting old warehouses into artist studios.
Another woman who’s rehabbing industrial buildings for small manufacturers.
The kind of properties that have been sitting empty long enough for invasive vines to take over…
Anyway, they have booths there if you want to meet them. ”
I lean against my pitchfork, considering. The city still hasn’t paid me for the Highland Park job, and winter work is always scarce. Plus, Reed sounds nervous about tonight, which is weirdly endearing coming from someone who usually has everything calculated to three decimal places.
“What time?” I ask.
“Two? I know it’s late for lunch, but—”
“Two works. Where should I meet you?”
“Downtown. By the ice rink?”
After we hang up, I stare at my reflection in the barn window. If Reed’s introducing me to potential clients, I should probably look professional and businesslike instead of resembling someone who’s been wrestling goats all morning.
Thankfully, the truck just needed a jump and a new battery, but I’m already dancing on a haystack when it comes to my budget. I decide I’ll accept Reed’s free lunch.
I hope he wears his glasses again.
An hour later, I’m standing in front of my closet in an actual panic.
Everything I own falls into two categories: farm work clothes and the single dress I wear to weddings…
or downtown when I plead with the city to pay me.
Neither seems appropriate for lunch before a business presentation.
I am obviously primarily concerned with the impression I’ll make on potential clients and absolutely not the nerdy tree scientist who smells pine fresh.
He would be a distraction, and I’m way too broke to let myself get distracted.
Eventually, I settle on my best dark slacks and a bright blue sweater Eden bought me last birthday.
I’ve never worn it because it seemed too nice for everyday.
I even dig out a scarf—a soft gray one Esther gave me years ago that still has the tags on it.
It’s like my sisters are trying to send me messages through cozy fabric.
By the time I reach downtown, the sun is already slanting low between the buildings, casting everything in that golden light that makes Pittsburgh look like a postcard.
It gets dark so early this close to the solstice, but I don’t mind as I look at the scene before me.
The Christmas market spreads across the plaza in front of PPG Place, wooden booths arranged in neat rows near the ice rink, where the city installed a massive Christmas tree my goats would devour in a heartbeat.
I spot Reed immediately, standing near the rink entrance in his dark wool coat.
And the glasses. Damn him for looking vulnerable and smart and mysterious.
When he turns and sees me, his face lights up in a way that makes my stomach do something acrobatic.
I need to remember this man holds the power to ruin me.
“You look…” He stops, seeming to search for words as his gaze travels from my face down to my boots and back up. “Really nice. Different. Good different.”
“Thanks.” I feel heat creep through my neck despite the cold air. “You clean up pretty well yourself.”
His dark hair is doing that thing where it’s perfectly messy, like he ran his hands through it but somehow made it look intentional. And he smells like those beautiful fir trees he’s always coddling. I definitely don’t hate it.
“Come on.” He offers me his arm. “Let me show you around.”
The market feels totally different when I’m here with a guy. Not that this is a guy-guy. Reed Saint Nicholas is the supervisor of my restitution for naughty goat behavior. That’s it.
But as Christmas music drifts from speakers hidden among the booths, mixing with the sound of a flute band performing near the tree, it’s easy to forget this isn’t a date.
Skaters glide around the rink, their laughter echoing off the surrounding glass buildings.
The air smells of cinnamon and roasted nuts and that crisp winter scent that makes everything feel like a storybook.
“This is incredible,” I say, stopping to watch a glassblower shape ornaments at his booth. The molten glass glows orange in his hands, transforming into delicate spirals and flowers as we watch.
“Pittsburgh does holiday magic right.” Reed guides me toward a booth selling handcrafted jewelry. “The guy I mentioned is somewhere with the metalworkers.”
We wander through the rows, Reed smiling at children and couples. A woodworker carves intricate nativity scenes. A woman sells hand-knitted scarves in every color imaginable. A couple offers chocolate truffles shaped like tiny presents.
“Reed!” a voice calls from behind us.
We turn to see an Asian woman about my age approaching, her magenta hair escaping from a knitted hat. She’s wearing work boots and paint-stained jeans under a thick coat, but somehow manages to look effortlessly put together.
“Maya,” Reed says, his face brightening. “I was hoping I’d run into you. Maya Chang, meet Eliza Storm. Eliza, Maya owns Riverside Studios.”
Maya extends a hand that’s strong and paint-stained. “Nice to meet you. Reed’s told me about your goat business.”
“He has?” I glance at Reed, surprised.
“I was telling Maya about what you did at Bramblewood,” Reed explains. “She’s been dealing with invasive vines at her warehouse complex for months.”
“Poison ivy,” Maya says with feeling. “English ivy. Some kind of vine that might actually be strangling the building. I’ve had three landscaping companies tell me they can’t handle it unless they use so many chemicals I’d have to evacuate the artists.”
“Goats love English ivy,” I say automatically. “And poison ivy doesn’t bother them at all. How many acres are we talking about?”
As Maya describes her property, I find myself getting excited. It’s exactly the kind of work my herd excels at, and they could clear her property in a matter of days if it doesn’t snow. We exchange contact information, Maya promising to call next week to schedule a site visit.
“That was amazing,” Reed says after Maya heads to her booth. “You should see your face when you talk about your work.”
“What do you mean?”
“You light up. Like you’re talking about something you love instead of just a job.”
Before I can respond, he’s steering me toward a booth selling roasted nuts. The vendor recognizes Reed immediately, calling out a greeting in Italian.
“Due coni, per favore,” Reed says, holding up two fingers.
The man grins and fills two paper cones with hot almonds, the steam rising in little clouds between us. Reed hands me one, his fingers brushing mine as I take it.
“You speak Italian?” I ask, warming my hands on the cone.
“A little. My grandmother on my mother’s side. She used to make these nuts every Christmas.” Reed’s voice gets softer. “It’s one of the few family traditions I miss.”
We find an empty bench facing the ice rink, close enough to hear the scrape of skates on ice and the cheerful chaos of families learning to skate together. I bite into the warm nuts, savoring the sweet, nutty flavor. “How do you know all the market vendors?”
Reed chews thoughtfully. “I met a lot of them in the startup cohort for my tree business.” Reed waves a hand at the wooden booths. “I had hoped to be up and running this year, but things got delayed. So, I drowned my sorrows in spiced cider…”
He laughs and shakes his head, popping a handful of nuts into his mouth. “I like being here more than being with my family this time of year.”
I laugh, but it’s not bitter. “The Storm sisters’ approach to Christmas was… creative. One year we had no money for presents, so we made coupons for each other. Good for one free hair braiding, one batch of cookies, one night of doing someone else’s chores. That sort of thing.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It was.” I’m surprised to realize I mean it. “Better than the years Mom was around and tried to make everything ‘perfect’ only to ditch us for happy hour with her favorite barflies. Esther always said the best Christmases were the ones when we just had each other.”
Reed is quiet for a moment, watching a little girl in a pink coat wobble across the ice while her father skates backward in front of her, arms outstretched.
“We had these elaborate Christmas Eve dinners,” he says. “Catered affairs with the right China and the right wines and conversation topics approved by my mother. I used to time how long we could go without anyone mentioning business or stock prices or who was donating what to which charity.”
“What was your record?”
“Twelve minutes.” Reed grins, but there’s sadness in it. “Usually broken when my father started lecturing me about my ‘phase’ and when I was going to grow up and join the real world.”
I want to reach over and touch his hand, but I don’t quite dare. Instead, I shake more cinnamon nuts into my mouth. “For what it’s worth, I think what you’re doing is pretty real.”
“Even if it’s too dependent on technology?”
“Even if you sometimes need extension cords and duct tape to make it work.”
That gets a real smile out of him.
We spend a damn-near perfect afternoon wandering around, munching and taking in the sights.
Around us, the market glows as vendors switch on their string lights.
The sun has disappeared behind the buildings, leaving the sky that deep blue color that only appears in winter.
The Christmas tree lights reflect off the ice, creating patterns that shift and dance with each passing skater.
“We should probably head to Bramblewood soon,” Reed says, but he doesn’t move. “I need to set up for the presentation.”
“Nervous?”
“Terrified,” he admits. “What if they hate it? What if my father was right, and this whole thing is just an expensive hobby?”
I study his profile in the twinkling lights, the way his jaw tightens when he’s worried, the way his glasses catch the reflection of the Christmas tree. “Reed, look at me.”
He turns, and I’m struck again by how his eyes look almost golden in this light.
“You’re going to be brilliant,” I say firmly. “You believe in what you’re doing, and anyone who doesn’t see that is missing out on something extraordinary.”
Reed stares at me for a long moment, and I feel the electric awareness that’s been building between us for days. The space between us seems to shrink, and I think he might lean closer, might finally—
“Excuse me,” a voice interrupts. “Are you folks ready to move along?” We look up to see a security guard smiling apologetically. “We’re starting to close the ice rink for the evening. Private event.”
“Of course.” Reed stands quickly. “Sorry.”
As we gather our things, Reed pauses at a booth selling handcrafted ornaments. The woman behind the counter has dozens of tiny animals carved from wood—foxes, rabbits, owls.
And goats.
“How much for this one?” Reed asks, picking up a small wooden goat with tiny horns and an expression that somehow manages to look both mischievous and dignified.
Reed hands over his credit card before I can protest. “For your tree,” he says, offering me the ornament. “If Cruella doesn’t eat it first.”
I take the little goat, running my thumb over the smooth wood. It’s perfectly carved, every detail precise but somehow full of personality. It does indeed look like my girl.
“Thank you,” I say, and mean it. “I love it.”
As we walk toward where we parked, Reed’s scarf comes loose in the wind. Without thinking, I reach up to fix it, my fingers brushing his neck as I tuck the soft wool back into his coat.
“There,” I say, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing, how my hands are still resting on his coat collar.
Reed’s eyes drop to my mouth, then back to my eyes. “Eliza…”
“Yes?”
But whatever he was going to say gets lost as a group of laughing teenagers pushes past us, breaking the moment. Reed runs that familiar hand through his hair.
“We really should get going,” he says.
As we walk through the glittering downtown streets, I clutch the wooden goat in my pocket and try to process what just happened. Reed is not the uptight rich boy I thought he was. He’s passionate and vulnerable and, apparently, thinks I’m extraordinary.