Page 45 of Max Bannon

I blinked. “Don’t worry about it.”

This is Wisteria Bliss, by the way.” She held out the jar, as if that explained anything. “You smell like stress and man problems. Rub this on your neck before bed. It will soothe your muscles.”

“…Are you trying to sell me goat lotion right now?”

“Iwasgoing to give it to you for free, I knew Pancake would headbutt you, and this is a peace offering, but now you’ve got an attitude.”

I stared at her—this wild, beautiful hurricane with a goat named Pancake and a complete lack of personal boundaries—and I felt something shift in my chest for the first time in a very long time.

“Willa Mae Jensen,” she said, planting her hand on her hip. “From Honeywood. I runJensen’s Jars & Goat Goods. You’ve probably smelled me at the farmers market.”

“That might be the weirdest sentence I’ve ever heard.”

She grinned. “Thank you.”

Willa Mae adjusted her grip on the net like she was about to catch a wild boar instead of a goat.

“Mind giving me a hand?” she asked.

“I don’t usually chase farm animals.”

“You’ll get a free candle,” she said, already stomping off after the runaway.

I sighed, glanced at the trail I’d been about to hike up, then followed her like a man walking into battle he absolutely didn’t sign up for. I put the lotion on the railing and followed her.

We found Pancake in the middle of my yard, proudly standing on top of a tree stump and chewing on one of my socks, from my boot on the porch.

“My favorite wool sock,” I muttered.

Willa Mae didn’t look concerned. “Consider it a donation. He’s working through some things.”

I stared at the goat. The goat stared back—chewing.

“You know,” I said, “for someone who makes soap, your whole operation smells like chaos. Are your goats always like this?”

She grinned. “Yes. That’s just the beginning. The goats love my vanilla and sass. Every time they smell me making it, they go wild.”

I crossed my arms. “Are you always chasing them around the mountain?” I asked, watching her.

Tossing the net over Pancake with alarming precision, “You havenoidea.”

Once she had him secured, she put a leash on him and turned to me.

“Thanks for the help, soldier boy.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You always just assume people have military backgrounds?”

“No,” she said, “but you’ve got the haircut, the posture. Plus, I knew some former Navy SEALs lived on this side.”

“I’m glad you caught your goat,” I said.

“I’m lucky I still have goats,” she shot back. “Now, you coming to the farmers market on Saturday, or are you too tough to buy exfoliating scrub in public?”

“…What time?”

She smirked. “Thought so.”

Saturday morning,I’d told myself I was going for the honey.

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