We tackle the fridge together, shoving, stacking, laughing when one precarious container nearly takes us out.
“Welcome to Everwood,” Cassie says, triumphant as the last dish slides in, “where having a minor in Tetris is a must. You survived your first fridge Tetris trial.”
We collapse onto the back step. Sherlock eyes us from the fence, chewing on what appears to be paper.
Cassie groans. “Last year, he ate the parade banner right off Main Street. The town had to march under a strip that said, ‘Welcome to Everw—.’ That goat is a menace.”
“He’s a goat,” I say, grinning. “They tend to be like that.”
By the time Cassie heads out with promises to text, the kitchen is back in order, my fridge is groaning, and I feel a little hopeful.
Inside, Austin is at the sink, sleeves rolled, rinsing mugs. “You handled that well,” he says without looking up.
“Did I? I felt like a juggling circus act.”
He glances over, mouth quirking. “A successful circus act.”
Something flips in my chest, inconvenient and warm. I busy myself with a dish towel. “Well, at least I didn’t drop anything.”
He chuckles once, rare and soft, then returns to his work.
Later, upstairs, after I get ready for bed, I scribble in my planner:I survived fridge Tetris. Call Cassie. Buy goat-proof fencing (??).
My phone buzzes. A text from Cassie:Welcome to the insane asylum. No refunds.A dancing frog GIF follows.
I laugh, flopping back onto my pillow.
Out the window, moonlight spills over the fields. Sherlock stands near the fence, head raised like he’s on watch his ears prickling. He snaps his head to the west field, pausing mid chew. I swear he’s more K9 than goat.
Chapter 6
Chaos v. Compartmentalizing
Austin
After I woke up and got ready for the day, the first thing I noticed was the change in the silence of the house. A place this size creaks and sighs like an old ship, but this morning, it was getting to know its new inhabitant. Different from the last owner. A shift in rhythm. A rhythm I’ll have to learn, map, and trust. Floorboards contracting in the cool. Inspector shifting his weight on the windowsill. The rooster welcoming the dawn.
Then—WHUMP.
A muffled gasp follows, high and unmistakably Milly. Powder drifts down the hallway like smoke.
When I round the corner, I find her in the kitchen, mid-battle with a mixing bowl. She’s frozen, blinking through lashes caked white. Flour streaks her hair, clings to her sweater, and even coats her shoes.
For a second, I just stand there, suppressing a laugh. Watching her blink, then laugh at herself, she shakes her head, and flour falls to the floor.
Danger in the shadows, Penny said. Protect her. But nothing in my training prepared me for this: a woman so alive in her mistakes that she was unstoppable.
I step closer, boots sliding on the flour-slick floor. She lifts her chin, eyes wide, lashes dusted pale. Her grin wobbles somewhere between hilarity and apology.
“Don’t say it,” she warns.
Instead, I lift a hand. With the edge of my thumb, I brush flour from her cheek. I should’ve stepped back. Instead, I let my hand hover there one heartbeat longer. She goes still. My fingers take their time, brushing over her soft skin, lingering long enough to leave the warmth of her cheek echoing against my fingertips. My heart hammers, urging me to lean in, and I could. I feel myself moving closer, my eyes darting between her lips and her eyes. Her gaze meets mine, bright and unguarded, and for a second, I forget the mission. Forget the dangers Penny hinted at.
Then my training kicks in, and want and restraint war inside me. Restraint wins. I step back and smile at her wide, hopeful eyes.
Want is a dangerous thing. It lingers. It leaves a taste of what if.
“Better,” I murmur, my voice low. “What happened?”
