Page 56 of Salty Pickle

“When can you get her something? Monday?”

“Yes. Or Tuesday. I’m having to vet everything for anything that might upset her.”

“Of course. Let me know what you find.”

“You’ll be in tomorrow for the Friday staff meeting?”

“I plan to. Text me if you need anything.”

I drop the phone on my bed. Three days with a goat.

Speaking of which, I hear a plaintive meh eh eh from the other room, followed by, “Matilda, shhh! The neighbors!”

I hurry back down the hall. Lucy stands by the bookcase, where the goat is straining toward my collection of Bridgerton special editions.

“Don’t let her eat those. They’ve gone out of print.” I rush forward to move the books higher.

“You read romances?”

“Is that derision in your voice? Men can like romances.”

She pulls on the goat. “You don’t seem like the type.”

“And what type is that?”

She grunts with the effort of keeping my romance collection safe. “Salty sons of bitches.”

This makes me full-on laugh. “You cuss!”

“Matilda! Come on!” Lucy manages to get the goat to turn around. “The place isn’t very goat proof.”

“I wasn’t exactly planning on having a goat here.”

She blows hair out of her way. “Is there anywhere safe?”

“The balcony.”

She nods.

“Let me get some greens.” I rush to the kitchen and pull out an entire bag of carrots. I return to find Lucy with her arms around the goat, trying to keep her away from a shelf of classic records in their cardboard jackets.

“Don’t let her eat those either!” I hold out the carrots.

The goat sniffs, then takes a tentative step in my direction.

“She loves carrots,” Lucy says.

“You can have all the carrots you want,” I say, waving them at her.

I lead her to the French doors and throw one open. I toss a carrot onto the ground.

But the goat isn’t dumb. She knows I have more.

I hold out another and let her nibble on the end. Then I lead her through the door.

“Is there anything out there she can destroy?” Lucy asks.

“No, just metal furniture. I keep the cushions in an airtight box.”

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