Chapter 26 Turkey Day Delivery
TURKEY DAY DELIVERY
LUKE
The November rain has escalated from drizzle to deluge, and somewhere in this building is a goat I need to steal.
No, not steal. Borrow. Acquire.
Temporarily relocate for romantic purposes.
"This is insane," I tell my reflection in the rearview mirror.
My reflection doesn't argue.
My phone buzzes.
Daniella.
Status update? Also, why does your credit card show a charge for 'Goat Supplies Plus'?
ME: Don't ask questions you don't want answered.
DANIELLA: Too late. I'm invested now. Did you get the goat?
ME: About to acquire the goat.
DANIELLA: Please don't use corporate speak for goat theft.
ME: It's not theft. It's a last-ditch effort
DANIELLA: Judge won't see it that way.
I pocket my phone and grab the bag of supplies from the passenger seat.
According to my research—because yes, I researched goat acquisition—I have alfalfa pellets, a lead rope, and what the pet store clerk assured me was "irresistible to goats."
It looks like granola and smells like feet.
The apartment building's front door requires a code. I'm contemplating the fire escape when a pizza delivery guy appears.
"Hey," I say, trying to sound casual. "I'm here to see Melody in 4B. About... yoga."
He looks at me—rain-soaked, holding a bag of goat treats, clearly lying—and shrugs. "Cool, man. Follow me."
Gotta love Seattle.
A place where even pizza guys don't judge your weird life choices.
The elevator ride to the fourth floor feels eternal.
What the hell am I even doing?
That question’s been echoing in my head all day.
Not just because I’m standing outside a goat yoga instructor’s apartment in the middle of a rainstorm with alfalfa in my bag.
But because not even six hours ago, I stood in a cemetery, trying to say goodbye to someone I never really forgave.
Not until now.
Veronica’s grave is tucked in a quiet corner of Lakeview Cemetery, shaded by a cedar tree that’s grown just enough to block out the skyline.
And I hadn’t even been back since the funeral.
Not once.
I told myself it was because of work. Or timing. Or traffic
But the truth?
I didn’t want to face her. Didn’t want to face me.
No. Not the version of me who loved a woman and lost her in every way that counts.
But today, I did.
I brought coffee. Because that’s what we used to do.
Sunday mornings. Back before everything fractured.
I stood there like an idiot, in front of her grave, holding that second cup until the rain soaked it through.
And then I finally said what I should’ve said years ago.
“I hated you for what you did.”
The words were sharp in the wet air, like they’d been waiting.
“I hated you for Kevin. For not telling me. For leaving before we could yell or cry or fix anything. But mostly…”
My voice broke. I let it.
“Mostly I hated that you made me afraid to love again. That every time something felt real, I flinched. I built walls. I convinced myself love was just data for future sabotage. I made myself unreachable.”
I touched the cold stone, the letters of her name carved with precision.
“I’m done being unreachable.”
A gust of wind cut through my coat. A crow called out somewhere above me.
“I’m choosing someone. I’m choosing her. And I’m letting you go. Not because you deserve my forgiveness—but because I do.”
I left the coffee beside the headstone. It was still steaming when I walked away.
Because I’m Lukas Ambrose Sterling.
Because I run a multi-billion dollar company. Because I shouldn’t be afraid of anything.
Except apparently I am, because here I stand, my hand practically shaking as I knock on goat yoga instructor Melody Damon’s door at midnight like some kind of barnyard burglar.
"Coming!" Her voice is muffled. Then louder: "Buttercup, get down from there! That's not for—"
The door opens to reveal the goat yoga instructor in tie-dye pajamas, hair in chaos, with what appears to be yoga mat stuffing in her teeth.
"Luke Sterling?” She blinks. "What are you—Buttercup, NO!"
A white blur rockets past her, directly into my knees.
I stumble backward and land flat on my back in the hallway with thirty pounds of excited goat on my chest.
"Maaah!" Buttercup declares, then starts eating my jacket zipper.
"Hi to you too," I wheeze.
"I'm so sorry!" Melody rushes to help, but Buttercup is already doing her victory dance on my sternum.
I hold the furry havoc-wreaking animal to my chest. “It’s fine.”
“No, it’s not fine. Nothing’s fine.” She motions. "She's been impossible since I brought her back. Won't eat. Keeps escaping. Destroyed my meditation cushion..."
"About that," I manage, gently relocating Buttercup to the floor where she immediately attacks my shoelaces. "I need to borrow her."
"Borrow her?"
"For Sage. It's important."
Melody's expression shifts from frazzled to calculating. "This is about your breakup."
"We didn't—how do you know about that?"
"Small town yoga community. Everyone knows everything." She leans against the doorframe. "Sage cried during warrior pose last week. So heartbreaking."
My heart knocks against my ribs. “She did?"
"Ugly cried. Snot and everything. Had to burn some extra sage to cleanse the energy."
My chest tightens. "I need to fix this."
"With goat theft?"
"With a gesture that happens to include a goat." I pull out my phone, showing her the receipt. "I'll pay the adoption fee. Double. Triple. Whatever you want."
"I don't want money." She studies me while Buttercup moves on to eating my watch band. "I want to know you're not going to hurt her again."
"Sage?"
"Both of them. Buttercup's very sensitive. She's been stress-eating my throw pillows."
I look down at the goat, who's now trying to climb into my lap despite the fact we're both sitting on the hallway floor. "I'm not going to hurt either of them. I'm going to... wait, is that my wallet?"
Buttercup has indeed extracted my wallet and is methodically taste-testing my credit cards.
"She's emotionally eating," Melody explains. "It's a cry for help."
"It's a cry for dietary fiber." I rescue my Amex Black from goat teeth. "Look, Melody, I know I screwed up with Sage. But I want to make it right, and for some reason that involves reuniting her with this criminally minded goat."
"Buttercup's not a criminal. She's an artist."
"She literally just ate my money."
"Performance art."
We stare at each other while Buttercup moves on to my car keys, jingling them like a very short janitor.
"Fine," Melody says finally. "But I have conditions."
"Name them."
"First, Buttercup needs a proper home. Not just weekend visits."
"Done."
"Second, you have to promise to do goat yoga. The energy exchange is important."
"I... what?"
"Goat yoga. You. Participating. It's non-negotiable."
I think about my dignity, my reputation, my general inflexibility. Then I think about Sage crying during warrior pose.
"Fine. Yes. Goat yoga."
"Third," Melody continues, clearly enjoying this, "you have to tell me your plan. The universe demands transparency in romantic gestures."
"I can't—"
"Then Buttercup stays here."
Buttercup chooses this moment to whine pathetically, like she understands the stakes.
"Okay," I cave. "I'm going to... fix something. On her computer. When she gets back from the hospital."
"Her sister's having a baby," Melody nods. "Mercury retrograde babies are very special."
"Right. So while she's gone, I need to set something up at the inn. With Buttercup. It's complicated."
"Love is complicated." She disappears into her apartment, returning with a leopard-print leash and what appears to be a goat sweater. "Buttercup gets cold. And anxious. And she only likes NPR in the car."
"NPR?"
"She's very sophisticated."
Twenty minutes later, I'm driving through Seattle with a goat in my backseat, listening to a late-night jazz program because apparently that's Buttercup's favorite.
My electric Porsche’s pristine interior is already showing signs of goat occupation.
Muddy hoofprints. Hay somehow everywhere.
And is that a bite mark on the headrest?
My phone rings through the car speakers.
Connor.
"Tell me you're not doing something stupid," he says without so much as a ‘hello.’
"Define stupid."
"Daniella says you're stealing a goat."
"Borrowing. With permission. Mostly."
"Luke." His voice carries twenty years of friendship. "What's the plan here?"
"I need to show Sage that I choose her. That I trust her. That her hacking my profile was actually the best thing that ever happened to me."
"And this requires a goat?"
"Apparently."
Buttercup blats agreement from the backseat.
"Was that—"
"Yes."
"You have a goat in your car.”
"Yes."
"Your hundred-thousand-dollar car."
"Yes."
A pause. "You really love her."
"The goat's growing on me, but—"
"Sage, you idiot."
"Oh." I glance in the rearview mirror at Buttercup, who's somehow found a seatbelt to chew. "Yeah. I really do."
"Then godspeed, you lovable bastard.” He hangs up.
The drive to Alder Ridge takes forever.
Buttercup provides commentary for most of it, occasionally punctuated by the sound of her discovering new things to eat.
By the time we reach the inn, she's consumed half a floor mat and what I'm pretty sure was important paperwork.
The inn is dark, which makes sense.
Sage is at the hospital with her family.
According to my careful stalking of Harper's Instagram—judge me all you want—baby James arrived at 11:23 PM, healthy and loud.
"Okay," I tell Buttercup as I park. "Here's the plan. We go inside, I do some work on Sage's computer, you... exist. Quietly. Can you do that?"
"Maaah."
"I'm taking that as yes."
Getting into the inn proves easier than expected.
Either Sage gave me the door code in a moment of trust, or I'm better at remembering random numbers than I thought.
Probably the former, which makes my chest tight with something that might be feelings.
The lobby is exactly as I remember.
Warm wood. That faint scent of lavender and history.
The fireplace cold but waiting.
Buttercup immediately heads for the registration desk like she's reporting for duty.
"No eating the guest registry," I warn.
She gives me a look that suggests I'm being unreasonable.
I head for Sage's office, laptop bag in hand, trying not to think about how this is technically breaking and entering.
I have a key. Sort of.
A code is like a key.
Digital age and all that.
Her office is chaos, but organized chaos.
Sticky notes everywhere. Each one a different crisis or dream.
"Fix gutters."
"Goat yoga Saturdays?"
"Remember you're enough."
That last one makes me pause.
"She's never believed that," I tell Buttercup, who's investigating the waste basket. "Always thought she had to earn her place."
Buttercup extracts a crumpled paper and begins shredding it methodically.
"That's probably important," I note.
She continues shredding.
I boot up my laptop and get to work.
The code flows easily.
Because I know what I want to say. And I know how to say it in a language only Sage will understand.
Every line is deliberate, every function a truth I should have said weeks ago.
Time passes.
Buttercup eventually curls up under the desk, occasionally bleating commentary.
The rain continues its Seattle symphony against the windows.
"This might not work," I tell the goat around 2 AM. "She might hate it. Might think it's an invasion of privacy."
Buttercup snores in response.
"Very helpful."
I keep coding, building something that's part apology, part declaration, part promise.
It's the most inefficient code I've ever written because it's not meant to be efficient.
It's meant to be true.
My phone buzzes. Daniella.
She just left the hospital. ETA 30 minutes.
Thirty minutes to finish this. To set up everything.
To hope I haven't miscalculated.
"Time to go," I tell Buttercup, saving my work and preparing the final display.
She stretches, yawns, and promptly tries to eat my laptop cord.
"No. Bad goat. That's worth more than your yoga instructor's rent."
She looks offended but releases the cord.
I do final checks, make sure everything will trigger when she opens her laptop, then gather my things.
Almost dawn now, that gray Seattle pre-light that makes everything feel possible.
"Come on," I tell Buttercup. "Let's go wait where she'll find us."
We head to the lobby, and I settle into the same chair where I first waited for her that midnight weeks ago. Buttercup curls up at my feet, occasionally sighing like the drama queen she is.
Now we wait.
And try not to think about how this could go very, very wrong.
"She'll forgive us," I tell Buttercup. "She has to."
Buttercup's snore suggests she's reserving judgment.
Fair enough.
I close my eyes, one hand on goat fur, and wait for Sage to come home.
Outside, the rain finally stops.
I choose to take it as a sign.