She gasps in mock offense, her mouth parting, but her eyes are shimmering with laughter. “You’re supposed to lie! Say it’s rustic. Say it’s… something.”
“I know, but rustic implies that it’s edible.”
She hurls a towel at me. It lands on my shoulder. Laughter bursts from her, and the sting of failure disappears.
Behind her, clatter comes from outside. Sherlock bleats, followed by the unmistakable clang of metal.
Milly spins toward the window. “Was that?—”
“Your goat,” I answer, already moving. It’s the second gate he’s broken since we’ve been here.
Outside, Sherlock struts across the yard, horns high, as if he’d won.
I narrow my eyes at the goat and think to myself,The battle continues.A few minutes later, I’m jimmy-rigging the gate until I can buy a new lock and fencing in town. I crouch, refit the hinges, and tighten the latch. Sherlock’s chewing on a rope he’s liberated from somewhere, eyes locked on me. I can almost hear him say,Challenge accepted.
Milly leans on the porch rail, arms crossed, eyes following my every move.
“You’re handy,” she says softly.
I shrug. “Occupational hazard.”
Her smile lingers, then she pushes off the rail. “Round two,” she declares, clapping her hands. “I refuse to let a recipe beat me. But maybe I’ll try French bread instead.” She smiles and darts back into the house with a jump in her step.
Light filters through her hair, catching leftover flour dust. I follow her inside, more curious to see how this one will go.
When I cross the threshold, I pause. Apparently, Milly had decided to either forego the bread-making for today, or she’d forgotten what she was doing and lost her train of thought, which I’ve noticed happens more than not.
“You know, I was thinking,” she bites her lip and scrunches her face. “Where should these go?” She holds up a couple of coffee mugs.
I look in the trash, and the sourdough loaf is sitting on top with a few crumpled paper towels. She’d dropped the idea of the perfect loaf for today, and we are now off to plan B. Which I’m gathering is to organize the kitchen again.
She’s asked me about the mugs a dozen times already, or where to put utensils, pans, even the salt and pepper. It’s unnecessary, but I think it’s her way of threading me into the fabric of this house, whether she realizes it or not.
“In the cupboard,” I say, nodding. “Bottom shelf, left side.”
She halts, one mug dangling from each hand, and plants her hips against the counter. “That’s so boring.”
“How is shelf placement boring?”
Her eyes narrow, lips twitching as if holding back a grin. “Because mugs have moods. Early-morning, nostalgic, conquer the world. If you’re going to live here, you need to respect the system.”
I arch a brow. “Conquer the world, huh? Never pictured you so bloodthirsty.”
“Yeah, conquer the world,” she answers instantly. “Maybe not bloodthirsty exactly, just allergic to stupidity.”
I rub at my temple like it pains me, though truth be told, it doesn’t. She’s oddly disarming, the way she stands there unguarded and entirely herself. My gaze slips, traitorous, to her mouth, the curve of her lips tugging upward as if she already knows she’s winning.
“That’s chaos disguised as structure,” I mutter.
“Maybe,” she says, and the giggle she tacks on pulls heat low in my chest. “But at least it’ll be cheerful.”
Later, she scatters her sticky notes back across the counter again. Reminders or to-do’s. I corral them back into a neat stack at the corner, where they won’t get lost in her chaos.
“Did you just stack my notes again?” she asks, mock glare aimed squarely at me.
“They’ll be easier to find this way.”
“They’ll be easier to forget that way,” she counters, tugging the stack back toward her.
