1
Here We Goat Again (Tory)
Nine Years Ago
When I look back at my seventeen-year-old self, there are exactly seven minutes and twenty seconds forever burned into my brain.
That’s how long it takes to get out of Granny’s little red Nova I’d driven over to Farmer Faulkner’s place, carrying a freshly baked peach pie smelling like heaven.
How long I bite my lip on their doorstep, unsure if Quinn would even be home, much less receptive to a decadent dessert at ten o’clock in the morning. But Granny did give it her ringing endorsement, swearing it’s the best I’ve ever made from her recipe.
How long I exhale in relief as a tall, handsome boy who looks a thousand times better than this pie smells opens the door with his trademark grin.
How long I stand there speechless, staring up at him, and forget how to form words.
Thankfully, Quinn remembers for me, holding the door open and waving me inside with a bewildered look. Even though we’ve been friends for years, I still get clogged full of butterflies when he shoots me that smile.
“Don’t just stand there teasing me. Get in here,” he says with a laugh like a song.
“Okay! I just baked it this morning,” I mumble, shocked I can speak with my cheeks in flames. “Granny’s recipe. We thought maybe you’d be in the mood for—”
Record screech.
Stop.
We’re not quite halfway through my seven minutes of heaven. This is when it takes a detour through hell.
Because a second later, the toe of my shoe catches on Grandpa Faulkner’s unseen pile of boots by the door. For another second, there’s just panic, a faint hope I might get lucky and avoid making a total fool of myself.
Nope.
Not today.
The jarring sensation of my body spinning and hitting the floor proves one thing.
I just ruined any hope the hottest boy in town ever had of eating this delicious pie by planting myself in it face-first.
At least it isn’t so piping hot it hurts. Not physically.
Emotionally? I’m dead.
I think the only reason I’m not bawling when his strong arms lift me up is because I’m too freaking sticky, plastered in peach filling.
“Tory, holy shit. Take my hand,” he growls, slipping his big fingers through mine. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”
For the next minute, I’m just silent as a grave, counting how many times I must’ve dreamed of this moment, holding Quinn Faulkner’s hand.
And not one of those dreams ever included being a hot mess of sticky hair, fruit filling, crust, and skin so red with shame I wonder if it’ll stain me crimson for life.
Somehow, he’s still laughing, even as he brings me upstairs to the bathroom and fetches a washcloth from nowhere, wiping at my face.
But it’s not a cruel, arrogant, look-at-what-a-klutz-you-are laugh.
He’s too good for that.
It’s kind, as if to say, no big deal. Peach-flavored shit happens.
I’m a little less sticky when I grab the washcloth out of his hand and use it to blot at my face, trying to hide the tears, and failing.
“I...I’m sorry, Quinn. I’m such an idiot. I tried to do one nice thing for you and—”
“And?” he echoes, snatching the damp cloth from my trembling hand and gently blotting peach goo off my cheek. “Last I checked, it’s the thought that counts. Don’t think I don’t appreciate it.”
“But you saw how clumsy I am!” I whine, tipping my face up to the ceiling.
“I saw you practicing one hell of a talent act,” he whips back.
For a second, I look down and glare at him, biting my lip. But the gentle, joking shine in his bright-green eyes is there to soothe me. Not taunt.
He’s always been the older boy, but he’s also mature beyond his years.
“Is this what you do when you go home to your fancy-schmancy dance routines?” he asks, that Oklahoma twang in his voice turning me to butter.
“You think I planned this?” Shaking my head, I smile anyway at how absurd it is. “You think I wanted to look like a total ass in front of you and your grandpa?”
“I mean...it’s a step up from the bees,” he says with a wink, referring back to the infamous time we met several summers ago. “And Gramps ain’t here. He’s in town today picking up jars for his honey.”
“Okay, but all that effort...I made it for you guys and I ruined it. You never even got a chance to taste—”
I flinch as he runs his finger over my cheek, wiping a small dab of peach off my skin. Then I watch in disbelief as he plucks it into his mouth, taking his sweet time licking his finger.
Oh my God.
I pull my messy hair over my face like a shield.
Bad idea, probably, when blushing this hard could set my face on fire.
“Tastes like summer to me. Sugary, sweet, just a little tangy, and...oh, wait a minute.”
I freeze in terror as he frowns, deep in thought.
“Yeah, I think it tastes just a little bit like an overachieving whiner who thinks I’m gonna send pictures of her peach-splattered face to her family, her friends, her teachers, all her future bosses, and every dude who wants to date her.” His eyes practically fuse with mine as he smiles.
“Idiot!” I snap, punching him in the arm. “Be serious. I’m trying to apologize.”
“And I’m telling you, there’s no need. Shit happens. You’ll bring over a new pie when you feel like it and we’ll pretend this never happened.”
Right.
Like it’s just that easy.
But the twinkle in his eyes insists it is.
“You’re the worst,” I say, grabbing the washcloth again so I can scrub away the smile I’m fighting. “I’ll never live it down. And what kind of man wants a girl who makes a mess like this? He’d probably be scared I’ll hit him in the face with a pie, sooner or later.”
“Plenty of guys, Peach. I promise you. You’re gonna make some dude ecstatic.”
My eyes dart up, fully expecting to see another playful and annoyingly gorgeous smirk etched on Quinn’s face.
Only, there’s not a shred of fun in those emerald fire eyes.
None of the usual clown sarcasm.
He’s stone-cold serious.
And I try to blame every last bit of the searing hot blood rushing to my face on the pie mishap as my seven minutes and twenty seconds to heaven expires.
That’s how long it takes for him to save me for the second of many times in my life.
It’s also how long it takes me to fall from schoolgirl infatuation to head over heels in love with Quinn Faulkner.
Present
Life is a whole series of firsts.
The rush of a first kiss with an impossible boy on a sticky summer day.
The first disappointment of that damning B on a Euro history test your overachieving butt busted itself over.
The first time your adult self steps into a small town that still feels magical, even though you’re far too old for that kinda thinking anymore.
And then there’s your first time with goats.
“Come on, guy, why are you looking at me like that? It’s not like I planned on winding up a goat wrangler in Dallas, North Dakota,” I tell Owl, the huge black hill of a dog sitting next to me in the passenger seat. He’s looking at me now, turning away from staring out the truck’s windshield like my copilot.