Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 130255 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 651(@200wpm)___ 521(@250wpm)___ 434(@300wpm)
I bristled. “Why? Because I’m carrying an extra twenty pounds I can’t run?”
Max blinked at me. “No. Because this is the first time I’ve seen you out this early in the morning in running gear.”
Oh.
Oops.
“Oh,” I squeaked out. “Sorry. I… Never mind.”
Have a few bloody triggers about that extra weight, apparently.
“Don’t worry about it. It was how I knew Winston had escaped. I’d have believed you more if you were in jeans and told me you were going for a walk.”
Bugger it.
Foiled by my own great idea.
“Sorry if that upset you,” Max said quietly. “I really didn’t mean it like that.”
“No. Apparently I just have some issues.” I forced a smile and looked away.
“Why?”
“Why do I, a woman, have issues about carrying more weight than I should? Are you sure you’re ready for that dissection of modern-day society and the pressures it puts on women to look a certain way this early in the morning?”
He slid his gaze over to me. “Do you think you’d be happier if you lost weight?”
I tilted my head to the side as we walked. “Probably not.”
“Then why does it matter?” he asked quietly. “If you’re happy, then sod everyone else. The way society views people it deems imperfect is society’s problem, not yours.”
Who was this Max? Where had the real one gone?
“For what it’s worth, I think you look great the way you are.”
Confirmation of aliens, Your Majesty.
I met his gaze for a second and blushed when I looked away. “Um, thank you?”
“You’re welcome.” He looked around. “I don’t think we’re finding him here. Let’s check the barns. Wait—he’s been neutered, hasn’t he?”
“I’m not an idiot,” I drawled, glad to return to our usual back-and-forth banter. “Why? Aren’t your cats?”
“Rosie’s too young. I prefer to wait until they’ve had their first heat, and Asia is pregnant.”
Great. Not only did he wait unnecessarily long, he was reproducing.
“Any reason for that or just a stupid decision? It’s perfectly safe to get them done younger.”
“Personal preference. She doesn’t go outside her barn yet, and our boys are neutered. At least they are now, after getting to Asia.”
“That’s awfully young for kittens.”
He shook his head. “We took her in from another farm. She’s about two, and Grandma couldn’t bring herself to do the whole spay and abort thing, so she’s having them. The kittens will be done before they’re rehomed to other farms in the area.”
At least he was somewhat responsible.
“So why ask about Winston?”
“Because if he can get out of Greygarth Lodge, he can certainly get in a barn.”
Ah.
Excellent point.
“Fair point,” I acquiesced after a moment. “Don’t worry. I’m a responsible cat owner.”
“A responsible cat owner who can’t keep her cat inside.”
“Look here, you judgemental little—”
“Goatzart!” Max charged forwards, leaving me in the dust. “Get off the feed bag, you little sod!”
Goatzart?
I paused in the doorway of the bar. There were eight goats in here—Vincent van Goat was in a pen with two females, one of whom I assumed was Selena Goatmez. The others were all decidedly male, but I didn’t know their names, either.
How many goats did Esme have here?
And more to the point, why did all the males have pool noodles on their horns?
“Is he really called Goatzart?” I asked once Max had successfully extracted the feed bag from his chompers. “And why on Earth do they all have pool noodles on their horns?”
“Sadly, his name is Goatzart. My grandmother is rather fond of punny names—something I’m sure you share with her.”
My lips twitched. “I do enjoy them.”
“Well, that’s how we ended up with this lot. There’s Vincent van Goat, Selena Goatmez, and Goatie Hawn,” he said, pointing to the pen with the one goat I was already acquainted with. “And in here there’s Goatzart, Leonardo DiCaprigoat, Great Goatsby, Ryan Goatling, and Jean Paul Goatier.”
I dipped my chin and fought back a laugh.
Great Goatsby?
Leonardo DiCaprigoat?
It’s fine.
I was fine.
I wasn’t going to laugh.
I was not going to laugh.
Oh, God.
I was laughing.
CHAPTER EIGHT
ELLIE
Goats. Just… Goats
“Stop laughing,” Max grunted. “They’re bloody daft names.”
I pressed my lips together and tried to stop myself. It was almost impossible when faced with those names—who wouldn’t laugh at that?
“I said stop laughing.” He moved the food sack as far away from the goats as possible.
“I can’t.” I finally let it bubble over, although I did press my hand over my mouth to muffle it. “Those are the best names ever. I thought she only had two!”
“She did only have two. Then Goatie Hawn needed rescuing, so Vincent got another friend, then all these other ones needed rescuing, too.” He dipped his hand in the feed bag and held it out for Selena Goatmez. “I’m pretty sure she just got them from some people who needed to rehome excess males after the birthing season.”
I nodded. “Still doesn’t explain the pool noodle headgear, though.”
“They’re to stop the boys fighting. They can’t hurt each other if they’re wearing foam horns, according to Grandma.” He shot me a look that said he thought she was full of shit.