Chapter One #2
Damn, that hurt. It was sure to bruise in a way that would make sitting down a tactical decision for the next several days.
The whole time I kept my head tightly tucked above hers, plastering her body to mine, one arm around her shoulders, the other braced against the pavement.
Protect. Stabilize. Assess. Keeping her safe was my top priority.
My hip had already filed its complaint—a deep throb I set aside to deal with later.
No sharp intake of breath from her. No immediate recoil. No dead weight against me.
Good. That was good.
She’d landed half on top of me, half on the ground. Her heart pounded against my ribs—faster than mine, and her arms gripped me tight, telling me the exact moment her body understood how close that had been.
The truck was gone and the street had gone weirdly quiet—that particular stillness of a moment that could have gone terribly wrong.
I didn’t move and neither did she. For two or three seconds, the world narrowed to the sound of our breathing, steady and close, finding a rhythm neither of us had chosen.
Then Delaney sucked in a breath. She lifted her head slowly, her green eyes blinking up at me, wide and stunned.
Then her breathing returned, fast and uneven. Color flooded her cheeks, spreading across her tan skin and down her neck. I tracked the progression as if I were conducting a clinical study.
Her chest pressed into mine with every shaky breath, and my brain—deeply unhelpful and apparently suffering from oxygen deprivation—decided this was the perfect time to catalog everything about this moment.
The way she fit against me. Her warm weight.
The texture of her shirt. The scent of lavender and peppermint drifting up to me, not an unpleasant scent, and I wondered if it was from her shampoo or her soap.
It didn’t bother me as most scents typically did.
This was not the time for me to act like a horny teenager who’d never touched a girl before, but here we were.
I cleared my throat and gently urged her off as my body responded to her nearness in a way that was getting harder to hide with each passing second. Damn it. If she knew, she’d taunt me endlessly.
She scrambled to her feet. “What the hell, Marc?”
I pushed myself up, stifling a groan and wincing as my hip protested. “You’re welcome,” I snapped. The warm, fuzzy feeling from holding her evaporated faster than spilled isopropyl alcohol.
“I almost died!” She crossed her arms over her chest, which drew my attention to exactly where I shouldn’t be looking.
“That’s what I was preventing,” I responded, sarcasm overlaying every word as I brushed off dirt from my pants. The least she could do was be grateful.
She shoved at my chest. It did nothing except remind me that we only had a few layers between us and my body had very strong opinions about that. “By tackling me into the ground? Did you miss the day in medical school where they covered ‘first, do no harm?’”
“School of Veterinary Medicine,” I corrected, fighting the urge to grab her wrists and hold her hand—nope. Not going there. “And I know I’d have remembered the lecture about what to do when a stubborn woman chases a goat into traffic.”
“I wasn’t—” she sputtered, her eyes flashing. “I was trying to save him.”
“From what? A full belly and a carefree life? Because he seemed pretty content destroying your plants.”
A feral, low-sounding growl left Delaney’s mouth. “Ugh. At least I have a heart.”
“Having a functioning brain capable of recalling information doesn’t preclude having a heart, Delaney. They’re not mutually exclusive organs, despite what you may think.”
The goat bleated.
We both turned.
It stood five feet away, staring at us with what I could only describe as malicious intent. A hoof scraped on the ground. It was plotting something. Probably anarchy.
Delaney took a step back, apparently recognizing the malicious intent building within the tiny, furry menace.
The goat lowered its head. Its tiny budding horns, pointing directly at us. At Delaney specifically. A charging stance if I wasn’t mistaken—and I rarely was.
“Move!” I snapped.
Delaney froze again. Her fight-or-flight instincts sucked.
I quickly stepped in front of her, my body shielding hers, just as the deranged animal launched.
It collided with the back of my knee with the force and precision of an animal that had done this before.
Pain shot up my leg, which was surprising, given the goat probably weighed only thirty pounds soaking wet.
I grunted, stumbling forward into Delaney, my arms instinctively caging her between them as I tried not to crush her against the side of the building.
Our bodies pressed together again, her spine flat to the brick wall outside her store, which felt like the universe was actively mocking me. I was anything but serene.
Everything went dangerously quiet.
She looked up as I gazed down at her, and I noticed for the first time—or maybe the hundredth time I pretended not to notice—that she had a tiny, barely noticeable scar to the side of her left eyebrow.
Her eyes flicked to my mouth. My brain misfired, sending urgent signals to parts of my anatomy that had no business participating in this conversation.
Her lips parted slightly.
Don’t even think about it. I gritted my teeth. Count to ten.
Review the new prices for the equipment you were going over before you went outside to put up the sign. Think about literally anything else before you do something catastrophically stupid like kiss her or give her ammunition for the next twenty years.
Goat hooves scraped the cement behind us.
We separated like we’d been electrocuted, jumping apart with enough force that I nearly tripped over my own feet.
As we turned, the goat shook its head and freaking pranced through the half-open door of Sacred Serenity as if it owned the place.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Delaney groaned.
And a second later.
Crash.
Chimes tinkled. A scream echoed in the store. Delaney bolted inside, yelling, “I’ll be right there, Cheryl!”
I limped after her, my knee throbbing in time with my pulse.
Crystals were scattered across the floor like someone tossed a rainbow grenade.
Tarot cards were strewn like confetti.The goat—a male, approximately six months old, and clearly suffering from Oppositional Defiant Disorder—tiptoed across a low table, tracking what appeared to be glitter dust across the polished surface.
I swear he was grinning at us. An evil, self-satisfied grin that said it knew exactly what it was doing and had calculated the maximum property damage per square foot. I cringed each time its hooves scraped against the natural stone tabletop.
Delaney grabbed a bowl and ran the rubber mallet along the rim. A low, soothing hum filled the shop.
The goat stared at her as if she’d just suggested they discuss their feelings.
Delaney grinned and stepped closer, holding the bowl out as an offering. “Do you like that? Yes, you do.” Her voice had a sing-song quality to it, the kind parents used to coax toddlers to eat their vegetables.
When she got close enough, the goat reared back and headbutted the bowl with remarkable accuracy.
“Hey!” Delaney jumped, nearly dropping the bowl.
“That worked great,” I said. “Were you hoping he’d join in and dance out of the store? Or maybe achieve inner enlightenment?”
“Shut up.” She glared at me with enough intensity that I briefly wondered if she could actually curse people. “You try something then, since you’re so smart.”
I should shut my mouth. I knew I should shut my mouth. But her tone—that specific sarcasm dripping from “you’re so smart”—hit somewhere tender, somewhere I’d spent my whole life protecting as I navigated trying to make friends.
“I charge $150 an hour for house calls. Do you plan to pay in crystals for me to remove the goat, or should I send an invoice?”
It came out harsher than I meant. Meaner. Not one of my usual carefully constructed responses, but something messier. Something that bypassed all the social scripts I’d built and went straight for the jugular, because she’d gone for mine first.
Her expression shifted, and immediately I wanted to take it back. I was just—hurt. I was hurt, and apparently my mouth had decided to snap back before my brain could stop it.
This was different from my usual bluntness. This wasn’t me stating facts that landed wrong. Facts were easier than people. But facts didn’t care when you made someone feel small for being exactly who they were. Yet around Delaney, it was my defense. My go-to.
I scanned the shop for anything that might help me trap the goat long enough to shepherd it outside. My eyes landed on a large macrame wall hanging near the window—all intricate knots and natural fiber, probably blessed by monks or whatever Delaney did to her merchandise.
As I reached for it, Delaney’s eyes grew wide with horror. “No, no, no, no. Do you know how long it took me to make that?” she hissed, moving to block me. “Because I do. Three months. Three. Months. And I will never emotionally recover if you ruin it.”
Something in her tone made me pause. “Delaney, I’ll be careful—”
“You’re about to weaponize my art against livestock!”
The goat leapt onto the nearby counter, scattering more crystals. Cheryl, Delaney’s employee, a local college student who was likely reconsidering her life choices—ducked behind the counter, shrieking.
With the macrame firmly in hand, I lunged just as Delaney did. Whether it was to stop me or help corral the goat, I’d never know. We collided, shoulder to chest, and for a brief, stupid moment, I was acutely aware of how well we moved together, even in chaos.
Just as the goat was about to make a break for the door, I wrapped the wall hanging around its midsection.
The goat gave an indignant bleat and shot me a look that I could only interpret as “How dare you!”