Page 74 of The Goat in the Bedroom
I stared at the text, waiting for disappointment to hit. Instead, all I felt was... relief? Which was weird because Tyson was perfect. Handsome, sweet, built like a god, good with animals, except apparently our new goats, and actually interested in me.
Of course. Go be Obi Wan and save the resistance. Let me know if you need any back up.
Thanks for understanding. We'll definitely reschedule.
I tossed my phone on the bed and sat down, giving Holly some head scritches. Why was I relieved? This was supposed to be our second date, the one where maybe things would actually click. Where I'd feel that spark everyone talked about.
“You're overthinking again.”
I looked up to find Gryff leaning against my doorframe, Vincent tucked under one arm like a football.
“How do you know I'm overthinking?”
“You have that little crease between your eyebrows.” He walked over and sat next to me on the bed, Vincent immediately tried to eat one of the shirts in my hands. “What's wrong?”
“Tyson canceled.”
His face flashed with what looked like pure joy before settling into sympathetic concern. “Oh no. That's... terrible.”
“His sister asked him to go save someone from death by Rodeo Drive.”
“That's awful,” Gryff said, not sounding like he thought it was awful at all. “So terrible. Very bad. Poor Tyson.”
“You're literally smiling.”
“I'm not.” He was. “I'm just... Vincent and Holly are just so dang cute.”
The two of them were eating my comforter.
Before I could call him out on his obvious lie, the front door burst open with a bang that made both of us jump.
“Road trip.” Flynn's voice boomed through the house.
We headed out to the living room where Flynn and Tempest were both wearing Mustangs jerseys and grinning like kids on Christmas morning.
“Pack a bag,” Tempest announced. “We're going to Vegas.”
“Vegas?” I'd never been to Vegas. My mom thought Vegas was where good decisions went to die and people lost their college funds at blackjack tables.
“The Mustangs are playing Thursday night football,” Flynn explained. “Everett called and said he got us tickets. We can drive out, watch the game, maybe stay the night, drive back tomorrow. Oh and pack something fancy. He said something about going out after the game.”
Jules appeared in the doorway with a backpack and a grin. “Get in, losers, we're going to Vegas. I call shotgun.”
“You picked up Jules before even telling us about this?” Gryff looked offended.
“She responds faster.” Flynn shrugged. “Also, she threatened to disown me if I ever went to Vegas without her.”
“It's true,” Jules confirmed. “I have it in writing. Notarized.”
Artie glanced over at me. “What about the goats?”
“Oh, don' t worry,” Tempest said. “Sean and Ren have volunteered to goat and donkey sit. They seem very excited about it. Maybe too excited.”
Thirty minutes later, we were piled into Flynn's SUV, snacks scattered across the middle console and Jules's road trip playlist blasting through the speakers. She'd claimed DJ rights with the authority of someone who'd been preparing for this moment her whole life.
“Okay, ground rules,” Jules announced from the passenger seat where she'd claimed “navigation duties” despite us all having phones with GPS. “Everyone has to sing along to at least three songs. No exceptions. Yes, Flynn, even you.”
“I don't sing,” Flynn protested.
