"Have we heard from the farmers about picking up Gandalf?" I call out to Zoe.
"Who's Gandalf?" Marcus asks, still puzzling over the AC manual.
"Our resident escape artist." I gesture toward the supply closet, where muffled thumping suggests Gandalf is expressing his displeasure with his temporary accommodations. "He wassupposed to go to a ranch, but apparently when the owners saw him, they decided their current goat population was sufficient."
"BAAAAHHHHH!"
The supply closet door rattles ominously.
"Should I be concerned?" Marcus asks, eyeing the closet like it might explode.
"Only if you left any important tools in there. Gandalf has a particular fondness for anything that looks chewable."
As if summoned by our conversation, Zeus—the formerly tiny puppy who's now grown into a medium-sized ball of pure energy—comes tearing through the main area with a work glove in his mouth.
Behind him, Biscuit barks encouragement while Princess the pug watches the chaos with the resignation of someone who's seen it all before.
"Zeus! Drop it!" I command, but Zeus just wags his tail harder and takes off toward the construction zone slash kennel area, clearly interpreting this as the best game ever.
"I'll get him," offers the electrician, a wiry guy named Pete who's been surprisingly good with the animals all morning.
"Thanks. Just remember, he's food motivated. There are treats in the—"
Another loud bleat comes from the closet, then a hugecrashfollows and makes both Zoe and I tremble on the spot.
"Okay, that's it." I march toward the closet, pulling out my phone. "Zoe, call the ranch again. Tell them if they don't pick up this goat by five o'clock, I'll start charging them boarding fees."
An hour later, I'm in the middle of explaining proper kennel assembly to the delivery guys when the front door chimes. I look over and my heart does that ridiculous fluttery thing it's been doing every time I see Ryder for the past two weeks.
He's standing in the doorway looking unfairly gorgeous in his team-issued sweats that somehow manage to highlight everyperfect line of his athletic frame. His hair is still damp from the post-workout shower, and that easy smile that makes my insides turn to liquid flashes brightly across the room.
God, how did I used to function without that smile in my life?
"Hey, beautiful," he calls over the construction noise, picking his way carefully through the obstacle course my shelter has become. "Renovations are going well today then?"
"Yep. Loud, chaotic, and absolutely perfect," I grin, accepting the kiss he presses to my temple. "Hey! Maybe you should take some inspiration for your own house. You know, the one where you're still sleeping on a mattress on the floor?"
The same mattress I've been sharing for the past week because apparently I've lost all sense of self-preservation when it comes to this man.
"Hey, I bought those throw pillows you wanted," he protests with mock indignation. "That counts as decorating."
"Throw pillows on the floor don't constitute furniture, Ryder."
"They do if you arrange them strategically."
Before I can respond to this ridiculousness, Marcus approaches with the AC manual still in his hands and a confused expression on his face.
"Miss Harper, I hate to interrupt, but I think we might need to—" He stops mid-sentence, his eyes widening as he takes in Ryder. "Well, I'll be fucked. You're Ryder Scott."
"That's me," Ryder says with an easy smile, extending his hand. "Thanks for taking care of Mia's place."
"Dude, that goal you scored against Vegas in the playoffs? Legendary." Marcus shakes Ryder's hand with the enthusiasm of a teenage fan meeting his idol. "My kid's got your jersey. Wears it to every game."
I watch this exchange with amusement, noting the way Ryder deflects praise and asks Marcus about his son instead. Even after all these weeks, it still surprises me how genuine he is with fans.
"Actually," Marcus continues, clearly starstruck, "if it's not too much trouble, could I maybe get a picture? For my kid, Mickey?"
"Of course," Ryder agrees, and I watch them pose for several photos while Marcus fumbles with his phone like he's defusing a bomb.
