Page 2 of Nate Hayes

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.

Or new sunglasses.

Or maybe to grab some eggs from the guy who wore overalls and talked to his chickens like they were coworkers.

But the second I stepped onto the gravel lot and saw her booth—bright yellow awning, wooden crates full of soaps, candles, salves, and an extremely smug-looking goat chewing on a sign that saidBUY 2, GET 1 FREE—I knew exactly why I was there.

“Look who showed up,” Willa Mae called, shading her eyes with one hand. “Mr. Too-Cool-for-Conditioner.”

“Thought I’d see if I could smell like moonlight and goat dreams.”

“You’d be lucky,” she said, tossing me a bar of soap wrapped in twine. “That’sVanilla Woods. Made it last night. Smells like the woods after rain. Also, men who chop firewood shirtless and cry during sad movies.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And doyoucry during sad movies?”

“Absolutely.”

I picked up a candle labeledLust in the Lavender Patchand turned it over. “Do you just make these names up?”

“Every damn day.”

I pulled out my wallet. “I’ll take four.”

She blinked. “Four? That’s like… boyfriend-level commitment to bath products.”

I leaned across the counter just a little. “I’m a committed man, Willa Mae Jensen.”

Her eyes widened slightly.

And I walked away—soap in one hand, candle in the other—before she could say a word.

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