Nova gives me a squinty look. “Um . . . yesssss.”
It dawns on me. “Fu—I mean, don’t tell me you’ve stolen this goat before?”
“Senior year, me . . . and a few others.” She grimaces.
Andrew.
“I left a note describing where to find him, some field outside of town with some cows. We didn’t hurt Lambert,” she says.
“Lambert?” I ask.
“Maybe Lambert the first. I don’t know how long goats live,” Nova says.
“Between fifteen and eighteen years. I just looked it up,” Sabine says. “We could train him to shake hands and roll over. I could sleep with it.”
Nova shakes her head. “Still not feeling it, Sabine.”
“But they have those pygmy ones!”
“No means no.”
That chuffing sound comes again, and Sabine abruptly puts Lambert on the floorboard.
“Um, Coach?” Sabine asks.
“Yeah?” I look at her in the rearview.
“Lambert puked in your car.”
Chapter 11
NOVA
“Are you going to tell me what you did with that goat?” he asks me.
It’s almost one in the morning, and Sabine has gone upstairs. I’m not sure why he didn’t just drop us off, but he said he wanted to talk. I replied that talking is better after a cup of coffee in the morning, but I didn’t resist much.
I plop down next to him on our blue couch.
The den is shadowy, just the lights from the kitchen illuminating us. His gaze skates over me; then he looks away and glances around at our den—a small room but cozy in grays and blues and lime greens. A portrait of Mama, me, and Sabine is over the fireplace, taken the year I graduated NYU. Sabine is a little girl, her face serene, looking somewhere off camera. Mama is dressed in a pink pantsuit, her dark hair coiffed up, makeup on point.
“If I don’t tell you, then you’re covered under deniability,” I say.
“Hello. I was driving the getaway vehicle. I’m expecting state troopers to pull up at my house at any moment.”
I smile. “You let us off at the corner, so you’re fine. We walked to the stadium and stayed in the shadows on the sidewalk with Lambert. If they had cameras, it was just two girls returning a goat who escaped. Totally believable.”
“Fucking Lambert.”
I laugh. We spent about ten minutes after we got here cleaning out the “gift” Lambert left us.
“How did you get him inside?” he asks.
“I climbed over one of the low fences outside the stadium—see, I banged my knee.” I point to my bruise. “Then Sabine handed over Lambert. Thank God for small goats. We snuck inside an open door and found where they keep him. It’s a small pen now, so not a cage, so at least there’s that. Maybe people just say he’s in a cage because we hate Huddersfield so much.”
“I’m picturing you in boots climbing over a fence.” He rubs his hand over my knee, his fingers lightly brushing the bruise. I bite back the tingles it sends over my skin. “You’re okay, though? I can get you some ice for it.”
“I’m fine.”
“I never want you to get hurt over something that’s my responsibility. You should have let me do it.” There’s a serious tone in his voice.
“Honestly? I had fun. I haven’t been bad in a while.” I smirk.
He leans back on the couch. “So this fake-dating thing. You pretty much announced it tonight, but we can always tell everyone it was a joke or that you said it to help us out.”
“True.” I nod. Lois heard me, though, and I saw that gleam in her eye. She believed it—especially after seeing us in his office—and she’s probably already told the booster club via a mass text or email, which means everyone will be telling everyone by tomorrow morning. They’ll be toasting each other with coffee at the Waffle House. Throw in the bookstore kiss, which several people saw, and the foundation has already been laid for a fake relationship, so it wouldn’t be hard. Show up to a few games, smile and flirt at school with Ronan in front of Andrew and Melinda. It seems easy, but a tingle of unease rises. I haven’t admitted it to myself since seeing him again, but I can’t deny that my heart is vulnerable to him. I’ll have to guard it. Carefully.
“Let’s do it,” I say.
He gives me a surprised look and smiles. “Really? All right, all right. Thank you. Again. Is this the album you mentioned?” He leans over and picks up the photo book on the coffee table and flips it open.
I nod.
“This is you?” He points to a picture someone snapped of our family in front of my rosebush.
Smiling, I lean over. “My fifth birthday. I remember that red gingham dress. Mom always wore pink, of course, and the small wiry man is my dad,” I say, pointing to him. “Mama was taller than him. Bull riders are usually around five-five to five-ten, and it’s all about strength. He used to tell me he was the strongest man in the world, and I’d brag to all my friends.” I laugh. “He wasn’t a man to dress up—jeans and flannel were all he ever wore—but I picked out this white button-up at the store and begged him to wear it for my birthday pic. He took it off as soon as the camera clicked.”