Page 79 of Always Meant for You
“A refresher?”
She doesn’t elaborate. She slips the phone back into her purse and stares out the window.
“I’m not heartless,” I murmur. “It’s how things are sometimes. You know that. Some things are meant to be.”
She doesn’t say a word. And that silence tears through me.
We pull into the driveway. The main house glows through the downpour, headlights bouncing off the wet gravel. Abe and Kenny are already out at the goat pen, trying to shield it with a tarp.
I kill the engine.
Before I can say a word, Mabel is already moving.
She reaches for her heels, then pauses and hands them to me. “Please keep these dry. They’re?—”
“Vintage Dior—your favorite shoes. I know.”
Her eyes meet mine, and for a beat, the storm outside seems quieter than whatever’s happening between us.
“Yes,” she says, voice softer now. “That’s right.”
She twists her hair into a loose knot, wipes the back of her hand across her cheek, and stares through the windshield. The rain hasn’t eased. Neither has the weight between us.
She unbuckles, opens her door, and slides out.
“Mabel,” I call, “what’s going on in that head of yours?”
She meets my gaze through the open truck door. “I have to help this baby goat. I can’t go to bed and pretend it’s not there, cold and suffering.”
Christ, I should have known this was coming.
She steps into the storm, barefoot and determined.
I sit there for half a second, staring at the shoes in my lap.
Mabel left this town. She made it clear she wanted a different life.
But this—her out there in the dark, walking straight into a goat pen with no umbrella, no plan, no shoes—this is the girl I love.
And no matter how many times I tell myself not to want her, I still do.
God help me, I still do.
Chapter Sixteen
CAL
I leave the engine running and step out into the pouring rain, Mabel’s heels in my hands. Loose stones grind beneath my boots as I cross the yard. I gently tuck the shoes beneath a planter on the porch, sheltered from the downpour, and then get back in the truck and head for the goat pen.
By the time I reach the goat enclosure, Mabel’s inside, soaked, rain clinging to her skin and hair. The baby goat is curled against her chest. Her bare feet sink into churned mud. Her skirt hangs heavy with water. She stumbles once, catches herself, then holds the animal tighter.
“Is she okay?” Kenny asks, coming up behind me, watching Mabel with his head tilted to the side.
Abe joins us, looking equally perplexed. “Should we help her, Cal?”
“She looks like she might bite our heads off if we get too close,” Kenny adds.
We stand in a line like three bumps on a damn log, while she navigates the muck.
