Page 127 of Forever To Me

I blink and grin in disbelief. “Youknew all along."

She pats my arm. “Oh, sweetheart. Of course, I knew.”

I gape at her. “Andwhenexactly were you planning to share this information?!”

Maggie sips her coffee, completely unbothered. “Wasn't my information to share.”

I drag both hands down my face. “Oh my God. I did kind of make a fool of myself.”

“Oh,honey.” Maggie laughs. “You really thought you were just living with aregularguy? That Walker was just somerandombar owner? That his broody, secretive, ‘I don’t talk about my past’ thing wasn’ta massivered flag?”

“I—I don’t know! I thought maybe he hadtraumaor something!”

She snorts. “Well, technically, he does.Music industry trauma.Just like you do.”

I groan into my coffee. “I feel like an idiot.”

Maggie grins, entirely too delighted. “Oh, sweetheart, it’sadorable.”

She slides into a chair across from me, resting her chin on her hands. “So… what’s it like living with aformercountry music star?”

I scowl. “Exactly the same as before, except now I know his guitar collection is worth more than mysoul.”

Maggie cackles. “Oh, don’t worry, dear,” she says. “We all saw this coming.”

I blink. “Sawwhatcoming?”

“You two,” she says, gesturing vaguely. “The tension. The pining. The whole ‘oh no, we’re just friends, but also I look at you like I want to climb you like a tree’ situation.”

I choke. “Maggie!”

She winks. “I’m just saying, if I was writing this as a romance novel, you two would’vealreadyhad a dramatic rain-soaked kiss in the middle of town.”

I groan, burying my face in my arms. “Ihatethat you’re enjoying this so much.”

Maggie just pats my head. “Oh, sweetheart. I have never enjoyed anything more.”

Chapter 29

Walker

Ipull my truck into my driveway and hit the brakes.

There’s a goat.Tied to my damn mailbox. With a For Sale sign hanging around its neck, the letters painted in what looks like hot pink glitter glue.

The goat—big, bearded, and pissed—lowers its head and rams the post box so hard the whole thing shakes. I sigh, put my truck in park, and climb out. The goat lifts its head and gives me a death glare.

“Son of a—MACK!” I holler toward the house. “What the hell is this?”

The front door swings open, and Mack steps onto the porch like she hasn’t just pulled some unhinged small-town Craigslist stunt. I'm not even sure this is legal.

“Oh, good! You’re home!” she calls. “Billy’s for sale.” She says this like this is the most normal conversation we've ever had.

I pinch the bridge of my nose to keep from losing it. “You can’t just tie a goat to the end of the road like a yard sale lamp, Makayla Leigh.”

She crosses her arms. “Why not? You always say peopleimpulse buy crap. I thought maybe someone would see him and think, ‘Damn, I need a goat today.’”

Billy lets out a deep, guttural bleat, eyes glowing like Satan himself, and lunges at me. The rope jerks him back, but not before I dodge a solid attempt by him to the shins.

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