Page 6 of The Trouble with Love

“What’s that?” Grams asked, her chipper tone and carefree smile proving she’s completely unaffected by the screaming goat.

“You don’t let Paps bring home any more animals before I get back.”

Grams pats me on the shoulder, lifting one corner of her mouth. “Then I suggest you don’t take too long.”

CHAPTER 3

Macy

A warm, wet tongue swipes my heavy eyelids, startling me awake with a gasp. Two eyes—one brown, one blue—stare at me an inch from my face. Before I can orient myself, the sneaky tongue darts out a second time and catches my cheek.

“Gumby? What are you doing here?”

The dog pops up from his sitting position, tail wagging in earnest. My limbs feel like lead weight, leaving me no match for the eager pup who hops onto my sprawled body and attacks me with enthusiastic licks. I surrender to the pressure of his three small paws pressing into my aching muscles, noticing for the first time that I’m pinned against a familiar mustard tweed couch. A wave of exhaustion hits me, tempting me to surrender to the worn cushions for the foreseeable future. For something much older than my twenty-nine years, I’m surprised at how comfortable it still is.

I let out a long, obnoxious yawn that seems to intrigue the pup and earn me another lick, this time to the temple. Vaguely, I recall wrestling a frisky miniature cow to help Paps get an x-ray of her rear leg that thankfully wasn’t fractured. It might explain why Gumby is so interested in the scent of my t-shirt that is smeared with mud and Buttercup slobber.

“Gumby, get down,” a deep male voice demands, the timbre of it causing an odd sensation to zip throughout my body. I refuse to analyze what it might mean, shoving those thoughts down where they belong and ignoring them like a sensible person. I keep my eyes shut so they can’t drink in the tall, muscular man standing beside the couch. The one who is definitely not making my pulse trip over itself. The last thing my ten-year plan needs is to go down any road involving a tall, dark, pain-in-the-ass man.

“Gumby.”

The dog ignores Ryder’s stern tone and instead drops onto my chest, resting his head against my shoulder. A wet nose grazes my neck as he nestles in. I can’t help but feel a sliver of malicious satisfaction at the dog choosing me over the grumpy cowboy who is disappointingly nothing like his military photo once led me to believe. At least in my delusional fantasies, the man was always smiling.

“I think he’s staying, aren’t you buddy?” I stroke my fingers behind his furry ears, feeling the familiar ache in my chest. My love for animals has never been in question, but my busy schedule has never allowed me to have a dog—or any other pet—of my own. “Or maybe I can kidnap you and take you back to Colorado with me. What do you think?”

“Take your goat with you, too,” Ryder grumbles, reminding me of the disdain he wore like a suit of armor when he realized I was responsible for delivering Gertie to the ranch. I can’t help but feel a little defensive of the goat who obviously had nowhere else to go. That’s always how Paps has inherited his misfits.

“I liked you better in your picture,” I mumble under my breath.

“What’s that?”

I bury my face against a furry shoulder to hide my reddening cheeks. “What do you have against Gertie?”

“I don’t?—”

“Did you tell her dinner’s ready?” Gina appears in the doorway of the den.

“I was about to?—”

Gina yanks something out of Ryder’s hand, shaking her head on her way to me. I pretend not to notice Ryder slip out of the room as I lift Gumby off my chest and reposition him in my lap as I sit up. “I thought you might want to borrow a shirt.”

I let out a laugh that’s interrupted by a yawn so strong my eyes water. The long drive has finally caught up to me, no doubt the reason I passed out on the old couch in Paps’ den. The details of how I ended up in this room are a little fuzzy, but it tracks. “Mine’s not exactly dinner appropriate, is it?”

“I didn’t think you’d want to smell Buttercup while you tried to eat spaghetti and meatballs.”

My eyes widen in excitement as I experience a wave of nostalgia. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”

Gina sets a t-shirt on the arm of the tweed couch. “Thought you might be okay with that.”

I’ve lost count of the number of times I ate dinner with the Stones growing up. The first time they invited me to stay after an afternoon playing with their animals, I was nine. Gina made her famous spaghetti and meatballs—something I was convinced I hated. But I was desperate to stall going home and inevitably getting grounded for sneaking off, so I convinced myself to try it. One bite changed everything. I don’t know what secret ingredient Gina puts in her meatballs, but I’d be willing to bet it’s magic.

“I’ve missed it here,” I admit with a nostalgic sigh.

“We’ve missed you.”

“At least someone has,” I mutter.

“Don’t pay Ryder any mind,” Gina says, revealing that her laser-sharp hearing is still intact. She moves to the doorway, placing a hand on the doorknob. Before she pulls it closed, she adds, “He might come off a little rough, but his heart’s in the right place.”

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