chapter one #2
Nolan’s voice droned on as he shifted topics. “Before we move on, I’d like a quick status update from the editorial department. Ms. Martinez?”
I unmuted my mic, straightened in my chair, and smiled. “Yes, our fall titles are on schedule. Two are entering final edits, and marketing has already approved the campaign concepts. We’re expecting strong preorders across both genres.”
He gave a curt nod, eyes flicking to his notes. “Good. And acquisitions for the winter slate?”
“Coming along–” I began, but was immediately cut off by a sound that didn’t belong in a professional setting.
At first it was faint–like static. Then louder. Frantic. The unmistakable screeching of panicked chickens echoed through the supposedly soundproof walls.
I froze.
Nolan’s brow furrowed. “As I was asking–”
“AUNT NINA!” Liam’s voice blasted through the microphone, high-pitched and terrified. “THE FOX IS BACK!”
Every head on my screen froze mid-expression. I fumbled for the mute button, but the little red icon refused to appear.
I blinked, plastered on my calmest expression, and tried to form a sentence that didn’t sound like my life was currently on fire. “Uh–excuse me–”
“IT’S GOT ONE! I THINK IT’S GOT–WAIT, NO, THEY’RE FIGHTING!’
I yanked open the blinds. Feathers. Screams. Absolute chaos. My heart dropped straight to my stomach.
Nolan’s expression went stone cold. “Ms. Martinez?”
Before I could respond, a too-sweet voice chimed in from one of the boxes below mine. “I can give the update, Mr. Hayes,” Callin said, all polished confidence. “I’ve been handling several of those projects with Nina lately anyway.”
Of course she had. Callin–ambitious, irritatingly charming and perpetually one step away from stealing my job.
I stood so quickly my chair squeaked. “That’s–uh–great, Callin. Why don’t you do that.”
Then, with every ounce of false composure I had left, I smiled, hit Leave Meeting, and bolted for the door before anyone could witness the full-scale poultry apocalypse unfolding in my backyard.
The second my bare feet hit the deck, the air exploded with noise–screeching chickens, flapping wings, and Liam yelling something that definitely wasn’t in the parenting handbook.
“Liam,” I shouted, sprinting into the yard in my blouse and pajama shorts, but not before grabbing the outdoor broom leaning against the house on the back deck. The morning sun was already hot on my face, and the smell of pine and panic filled the air. “Get away from it!”
He stood frozen halfway between the coop and the trees, arms spread like he could physically block a fox from getting to the hens.
“It’ll get the chickens if I move!” he yelled back, voice shaking.
“Absolutely not. You’re not–”
Too late. The fox lunged forward a step, teeth bared. I didn’t think–I just reacted. Charged forward on instinct, and swung the broom like a lunatic.
The broom smacked across the fox’s snout with a sharp crack. It hissed–actually hissed at me–then took two cautious steps back, yellow eyes locked on mine. My heart pounded so hard it drowned out everything else.
“Go,” I said, brandishing the broom like a sword. “Get. Away. From. My. Chickens.”
The fox gave a low growl, then turned, tail flicking once before it disappeared into the tree line.
For a long moment, all I could hear was my own breathing.
I looked over my shoulder. “You okay?”
Liam stood by the coop, wide-eyed and trying very, very hard not to laugh. He nodded. “You just hit a fox with a broom.”
“Yeah” I said, gripping the handle like a trophy. “Chickens okay?”
He crouched, peering inside. “All accounted for.”
I exhaled, every ounce of adrenaline draining out of me, as I sank down onto the grass, landing hard on my ass, broom still in hand.
We had six chickens.
Two grown hens: Dolly and Taylor.
And four babies that had hatched three months ago: Noodle, Biscuit, Peep, and Nugget.
None of this had been part of my life plan. I never imagined I’d be standing in my backyard in mismatched pajamas, broom in hand, chasing off predators and counting chickens like a deranged barn witch. But here we were.
It all started last year when Mrs. Harold, Liam’s fifth-grade teacher and part-time community garden queen, asked if we wanted to hatch baby chicks in an incubator for a class science project.
Liam had been ecstatic. He checked the eggs every morning like his life depended on it. And when those chicks hatched?
He was attached, immediately. There was no letting them go back to the farm. So Mrs. Harold made a deal: if Liam helped build the coop and get everything we needed, we could keep two.
Now we were at six.
The gravel crunched behind the house, and a car door slammed.
A moment later, Jaxxon appeared around the corner, sunlight catching on his dark hair and the sparkly “NO BAD DAYS” shirt that felt wildly inappropriate for the emotional state I was in.
He stopped short, taking in the scene: me sitting in the grass with a broom, feathers scattered across the lawn, and Liam talking to his chickens like they’d just survived a war.
“Well,” he said, hands on his hips. “If this isn’t the most you thing I’ve ever walked in on.”
I let out a breathless laugh and sank further into the grass. “Don’t start.”
Jaxxon sighed dramatically, then dropped onto the ground beside me, stretching out his legs with a groan. He glanced toward the coop, then back at me. “Have you seen your email?”
I blinked, still catching my breath. “No. Why? What now?”
He winced, lips pursing. “Let’s just say it’s not a fan letter.”
My stomach sank. I fished my phone out of my pocket, thumb swiping across the screen. Sure enough, there it was–Nolan Hayes–Urgent Follow-Up: Meeting Request (3 Attendees). My name. Jaxxon’s. His.
Perfect.
I stared at it for a long beat, the adrenaline from my fox-fighting heroics quickly turning into dread. Then I exhaled, long and slow, and pushed myself up off the grass. “I need to get some work done before this disaster. I’ll meet you back here at four for the meeting.”
He nodded, brushing off his jeans. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Totally fine,” I lied. “Just need a shower, some spreadsheets, and about five miles of running so I don’t commit corporate homicide."
He grinned. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
I rolled my eyes and headed for the house, broom still in hand, the email notification burning like a warning sign in my pocket.