Chapter 2
GOAT TO BE KIDDING ME
SAGE
Twenty minutes after jumping out of the shower, I'm standing in my grandmother's old suite—now my bedroom—staring at the Waterfall Suite's shower like it personally insulted my ancestors.
Which, honestly, it might have.
The October rain continues its assault on the inn's windows, creating a percussion section that perfectly matches my mood.
It's nearly midnight, and I should be asleep, but the ancient plumbing has other plans.
Water drips steadily from the shower-head despite my best efforts with a wrench that's older than I am. And the forecast shows three more days of this weather.
I’ve only got two months. Just two.
Two more months of potential guests arriving to discover their "luxury mountain experience" includes the soothing sounds of Chinese water torture.
I adjust my grip on the wrench and give the stubborn fixture another twist.
"Come on, you geriatric piece of—"
CLANG.
The wrench slips, and I bang my knuckles against the tile. Hard.
"Shit!" I suck on my bleeding knuckle and glare at the shower.
This is what happens when you can't afford to pay Tommy MacReady for actual repairs and instead rely on YouTube tutorials and sheer determination.
The foreclosure notice crumpled on the bathroom counter seems to mock me from its position next to my grandmother's vintage perfume bottles.
Sixty days.
That's all I have left to turn this place around, and I'm losing the battle against plumbing installed during the Eisenhower administration.
Behind me, a soft bleat echoes from the corner where I've set up a makeshift pen.
"I know, Buttercup," I mutter, glancing at the baby goat currently chewing on what looks like the edge of my grandmother's antique rug. "This isn't exactly how I pictured our evening either."
Buttercup tilts her head, fixing me with those unnaturally intelligent brown eyes that seem to say, "Have you considered that your life choices are questionable?"
She's not wrong.
The goat yoga instructor was supposed to arrive tomorrow afternoon with Buttercup and three other goats for Saturday's inaugural class.
Instead, she called two hours ago in tears—something about a family emergency and a sick grandmother—and asked if I could pick up Buttercup tonight from her farm forty minutes away.
Because apparently, my evening wasn't complete without a livestock rescue mission in the pouring rain.
"At least you're cute," I tell Buttercup, who responds by bleating and somehow getting more of the rug into her mouth. "Stop eating that. It's probably worth more than my car."
I turn back to the shower and give it one more valiant attempt. The ancient pipes groan in protest, and for a moment, I think I've actually fixed something.
Then the shower-head falls off entirely, clattering into the tub with a sound that perfectly encapsulates the current state of my life.
"Perfect," I say to no one in particular. "Just perfect."
I stare at the now-gushing water pipe, mentally calculating how much this is going to cost.
Potential water damage to the suite below. Emergency plumber rates.
The fact that I'll have to put the Waterfall Suite out of commission just when I'm desperate for every booking I can get.
My phone buzzes with a text from Claire.
CLAIRE: How's the inn? Everything okay?
I look around at the flooding bathroom, the goat eating priceless antiques, and the foreclosure notice that represents the death of everything my grandmother built.
ME: Fine
ME: Everything's fine.
I type the message with the same ease I used to lie to myself every time Derek came home late smelling like expensive whiskey and excuses.
Because the last thing my pregnant younger sister needs is to worry about me on top of her own complications.
I turn off the water at the source and grab my bundle of clothes from the dresser.
There's no point in trying to sleep in here with the steady drip-drip-drip that's now coming from the pipe.
I'll crash on the couch in the office and deal with this disaster in the morning.
"Come on, Buttercup," I say, fashioning a makeshift leash from an old scarf. "We're relocating."
Buttercup mewls in what I choose to interpret as agreement, though she's probably just commenting on the scarf's fashion choices.
I scoop up my clothes, grab the goat's leash, and head for the door.
The inn's hallways are dimly lit, casting long shadows that would be atmospheric if I were in the mood to appreciate them. Instead, they just remind me of how much this place costs to heat and how far behind I am on the electric bill.
My bare feet are silent on the hardwood floors as Buttercup and I make our way toward the main staircase. The old building settles around us with creaks and sighs that usually comfort me but tonight sound ominous.
Like the inn is complaining about the state of its care.
"I'm doing my best," I whisper to the walls. "Grandma Rose, if you're listening, a little divine intervention would be really helpful right about now."
The universe responds by having Buttercup suddenly decide she wants to investigate every single piece of furniture we pass.
What should be a simple walk to the lobby becomes a comedy of errors as she attempts to taste-test a Victorian side table, gets tangled in her scarf-leash around a potted plant, and somehow manages to headbutt my knee in the process.
"You're supposed to be trained for this," I hiss as she makes a play for the vintage runner carpet. "The yoga instructor said you were 'fully socialized for hospitality environments.'"
Buttercup looks at me with an expression that clearly says, "The yoga instructor lies."
By the time we reach the main staircase, I'm reconsidering the wisdom of hosting goat yoga.
Sure, it sounded innovative and Instagram-worthy when I booked it, but that was before I realized that goats are basically four-legged chaos machines with excellent PR.
The lobby stretches below us, all warm wood and flickering firelight from the dying embers in the massive stone hearth.
During the day, it's magical.
At midnight, with a baby goat in tow and my arms full of clothes, it feels like the set of a disaster movie.
I'm halfway down the stairs when Buttercup decides to make a break for it.
The scarf-leash slips from my hand as she bounds down the remaining steps, bleating with what sounds suspiciously like joy.
My bundle of clothes shifts precariously as I lunge after her, and I'm pretty sure I hear something important rip.
"Buttercup, get back here!"
She ignores me completely, of course, and heads straight for the fireplace. Because apparently, nearly extinct embers are exactly what every baby goat dreams of investigating.
I take the last few steps at a near-run, my clothes bundle clutched against my chest like a football. "No, no, no! Not the fireplace!"
That's when I see him.
The man I’ve been trying to lure here. The man with enough money to change everything.
The man who’s dating profile I hacked.
Luke Sterling. Blue-eyed and tall and standing near the registration desk.
Looking like he stepped out of a magazine spread titled "Billionaires Who Clearly Have Their Shit Together."
His dark hair is slightly damp from the rain, his glasses reflect the firelight, and he's holding what appears to be a laptop bag.
For a moment, we just stare at each other. Me in my pajamas, clutching a bundle of clothes while chasing a runaway goat. Him looking like the kind of man who has never, in his entire life, had to fish underwear out of a shrub.
"I..." I start to say something reasonable, something that might explain why I'm in the lobby at midnight with livestock.
That's when my clothes bundle decides to stage its own rebellion.
The whole thing comes apart in my arms like a low-budget magic trick.
Shirts flutter to the floor, my favorite jeans land with a soft thud, and my collection of cartoon-character underwear—including the pair with tiny tacos that say "Let's Taco 'Bout It"—scatters across the hardwood like confetti at the world's most embarrassing party.
Luke's eyes track the trajectory of my Wonder Woman boy-shorts as they land directly at his feet.
Buttercup chooses this moment to add her own commentary, releasing a triumphant baa that echoes through the lobby like she's announcing her conquest of the inn.
"Well," I say, my voice pitched about three octaves higher than normal. "This is not how I expected tonight to go."
Luke bends down and carefully picks up the Wonder Woman underwear, holding them with the kind of clinical detachment you'd use for evidence at a crime scene.
"These are yours, I assume?"
"Unfortunately, yes." I scramble to collect the rest of my clothes, cheeks burning. "I can explain."
"I'm listening."
I look up at him from my position on the floor, surrounded by my scattered wardrobe and serenaded by a baby goat who's now investigating his laptop bag.
"Well," I say, tucking a piece of hair behind my ear. "It all started when the shower tried to murder me."