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Isaac knocked on the door since there was no electronic doorbell or anything of that sort.
No answer.
He tried a few times again, harder this time. When the door squeaked open, indicating that it hadn’t even been locked in the first place, they all wondered the same thing…
What the fuck were they doing in Bloomings Fucking Tide, knocking on a purple door guarded by an army of gnomes?
Isaac pushed the door open completely.
“Hello? Mayor Kalista Chapman?” He called but was met with silence. They stepped into the house, and a soft, fresh floral scent seeped into their pores at once.
Trey gritted his teeth. He had used the word ‘charming’ more in the last ten minutes than he had in all his life. But the house had a certain charm about it that he couldn’t deny.
It was both cool—the windows had been left open, and the breeze brought on by late afternoon blew against the lace curtains. But there was a warmth to it—a degree of comfort—that appealed to him.
The scent of fresh petals grew stronger as they traipsed across the entrance hall into the living room area.
They didn’t know whether to laugh or be shocked at the sight before them.
Strewn across the living room and down the passage were tiny scraps of colorful fabric. And sitting on a couch, chewing on a piece of fabric, was something that looked like a goat.
A fucking real goat.
Except when it turned its eyes on them, looked as if it were frowning, made a funny noise that sounded like a bark, and then resumed chewing on the fragment of material, they wondered what it really was.
What bizarre small-town shit was that? Where they came from, goats didn’t bark. Hell, where they came from, there were no fucking goats to start with.
They each bent and picked up a piece of fabric.
There was no mistaking that the goat on the couch had been nibbling its way through a substantial amount of tiny bits of panties and once it ripped through the lace, it went onto the next piece.
And they didn’t need to be detectives to know that the garments belonged to the golden-eyed, dark-haired Mayor of Bloomings Tide herself.
Kalista Chapman.
Still holding her panties in their hands, they turned at the sound of footsteps coming toward them—the tap of high heels against wooden floors.
The sound of a female crying out reached them. Soon they glided their gaze over the vision of her picking up bits of flimsy shredded underwear from the floor and hugging it to her as she scurried into the living area.
She stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of them. Her pretty sun-dipped eyes widened. Thick lashes whispered across her cheeks as she blinked, then blinked harder as if to clear her sight.
Her hair, a dark cascade of silk-like waves, seemed to bounce with every staggered breath she took. The tresses were so soft they kept falling over her eyes, forcing her to blow them out of her face, but failing because of her lips, which were two swollen cushions of pink flesh as if she had been stung by a hundred bees. But the swelling spread into her left cheek, almost doubling the size of that side of her face.
Were they seriously affected by a woman who smelled of flowers but looked like a blown-up pink balloon and who was currently hugging an armful of panties to her chest while her pet goat was draped on her lounger, taking great pleasure in ripping through the lace of her underwear?
A weird situation did not quite cover what was happening, and yet there they stood, momentarily struck down by the beauty that was still clearly evident despite the one side of her face looking like a pufferfish.
“Who are you?” she asked, using what she thought was her serious voice, a deep frown etched onto her face that just made her look more adorable than scary. Her words were slightly garbled, but they understood her clearly.
“Who are you?” she tried again, slower this time.
They really should take pity on her and introduce themselves, but they drowned in her expressive eyes as they went through a lightning speed of emotions, then inhaled the source—she was the source—of that scent that lingered in her house, and nothing confused them more than their reaction to her.
What the fuck was that about?
Trey knew that Isaac’s and Chance’s gazes had followed the same path he had—from the tip of her head to the tips of her shoes, which were neon pink high heels. The light summer dress she wore, while hardly meant to lure men, seemed to make them acutely aware of every curve of her sweet, sexy body.
What the hell was really wrong with them?
