My dad scoffs, a sharp, condescending chuckle that makes my jaw clench.
“A content creator. So, some kid with an iPhone. Campbell, that’s not press, that’s a hobby. It’s . . . what do they call it? More brain rot? Real media moves stock. It moves tickets. This internet play-acting is exactly why I don’t understand why you’re throwing your career away on?—”
“I have to go, Dad. I’m leaving the office now,” I interrupt, unable to take another syllable of his belittling.
“All right. Think about what I said. The firm is always?—”
I end the call before he can finish the sentence, throwing the phone onto my desk.
My chest is heaving, my muscles tight and vibrating with a toxic surge of pent-up, angry energy. I feel completely suffocated by his judgment, by the walls of this office, by the sheer frustration of never being enough for the man who raised me. Calling my mom is no use. She lives in a happy bubble where she goes to parties with other wives from the firm, and hosts charity events that don’t really help the people who actually need fucking help. It’s maddening. The two of them are maddening!
I can’t go home like this. If I go back to my quiet apartment right now, I’ll just pace the floor and stew in my own misery.
I need an outlet.
I push my door shut, then quickly dig through my gym bag, changing out of my professional slacks and blouse and pulling on a pair of black running leggings, a dry-fit shirt, and my running shoes. I dash out of the ballpark offices and shove my belongings in my trunk, then make the short drive to my apartment parking lot, tucking my key in the small pocket of my leggings before taking a deep breath of the late afternoon Oklahoma air. A storm is brewing somewhere. I can taste the moisture, and my skin is already glistening. A good sweat will do me wonders.
I drop into a quick stretch against a concrete barrier, rolling my shoulders and shaking the tension from my hands, then legs. I hit the pavement at a brisk pace, my feet drumming a steady beat against the asphalt as I make my way toward the main road through town.
I don’t have a destination in mind, so I let my legs dictate the route, weaving past the familiar faded storefronts of Sweetwater and the glowing Earl’s sign that will shinemuch brighter a few hours from now. As the miles tick away and the pavement gives way to the red dirt shoulders of the outer country roads, I realize exactly where my subconscious is taking me.
I’m heading toward Daisy’s house.
I slow my pace to a light jog as I approach the outer perimeter of her property, my lungs burning from exertion. I may have overdone it. I’m just about to turn around and head back toward town when a rustling in the tall brush along the ditch line catches my attention.
A small black and white goat pops its head out of the weeds, its yellow eyes locking onto me.
“Oh. Um. Hi there,” I pant, stopping completely.
The goat doesn’t just look at me, it lets out a loud, friendly bleat and trots right out of the ditch, planting itself directly in front of my running shoes. It nudges its head against my shin, acting entirely too comfortable with human contact. Also . . .oww.
“Okay, buddy. Where do you belong?” I look around, scanning the nearby fences, but there are no obvious breaks. I take a step forward, intending to jog past, but the goat instantly turns and matches my stride, trotting happily alongside me like an emotional support animal.
I slow to a walk again.
“Seriously? You’re coming with me?”
A soft laugh tickles my chest, and I reach out a hand. The goat presses its head into my palm. This thing is definitely a people-pleaser.
“I feel ya, pal. Me too.”
We walk down the dirt shoulder together for a few minutes, me looking for an open gate, the goat looking up at me like I’m his new best friend. I’m entirely out of my element, completely unsure of how to handle a rogue pieceof livestock, when the gritty rumble of a familiar engine echoes down the road.
Jake’s black pickup truck slows to a crawl beside us a few seconds later. The passenger window rolls down, and he leans across the bench seat, his warm eyes taking in the scene. A slow, highly amused laugh thunders from his chest, his dimples catching the fading sunlight. He’s wearing a baseball cap pulled low and a flannel shirt over one of his gray workout tees.
“Well, look at you,” he teases, his voice laying on a thick, gravelly drawl. “I didn’t know you added animal wrangling to your duties, city girl.”
“He’s tracking me, Jake!” I cry out, gesturing helplessly at the animal currently nibbling on the hem of my running shirt. I yank it from his mouth and wince at the small tear. “I don’t know where he came from. He just appeared out of the ditch.”
Jake chuckles, shifting his truck into park and stepping out into the road. He walks around the hood, looking completely at home in his faded jeans and boots. He snaps his fingers and lightly whistles, and the goat trots toward him, letting Jake scratch him right behind the ears.
“This is Willie,” Jake explains, a soft smile playing on his lips. “Well, Willie 2.0, but that’s a whole story. He’s my dad’s goat. Though, technically, he’s my mom’s, but Roddy bought him. The thing about Willie is that he really wants to live with his aunt on the other side of the hill. He breaks out of the back pen at my dad’s house at least once a week to make the trek.”
I give him a completely puzzled, bewildered look. “His aunt? Goats have family dynamics here?”
Jake lets out a loud, genuine laugh that makes my stomach somersault.
“It’s a long story.” My face is still heated from my run which means it's probably red too. His gaze focuses on it before tracing the lines of sweat trickling down my collarbone and then lifting to meet my eyes. My heart skips. “Tell you what. Get in the truck. We’ll throw Willie in the back, I’ll drive him home, and then I’ll give you a lift wherever you need to go. You look like you’ve run far enough today.”
