Page 61 of The Worst Possible Plan

“Miss Sophie?” he said.

“Yes?”

“A goat sneezed on my dad.”

I looked over toward the petting zoo. Sure enough, a very amused Bandit stood beside a thoroughly unimpressed man whose entire jacket now sported what appeared to be fresh goat mucus.

Nice.

It wasn’t even a little sneeze either. Several impressive globs of goat snot still clung to the front of the man’s shirt, one of them slowly inching its way toward his belt.

The little boy looked delighted. Like he’d just witnessed the greatest event of his young life and couldn’t wait to tell his friends that his dad got slimed by a goat.

His father… not so much. He stood there holding his arms slightly away from his body while staring down at the damage with quiet disbelief, like he’d probably left the house expecting hot dogs and games, not biological warfare.

A month ago, I would’ve been grossed out. Today, I was trying very hard not to laugh.

“I’m so sorry,” I said, already grabbing a handful of paper towels and hurrying toward him. “He’s still working on his social skills.”

Bandit wagged his tail. The traitor looked proud of himself. If anything, he seemed to think he’d successfully welcomed another visitor to the festival. Somewhere deep inside that tiny goat brain, he was probably expecting a participation ribbon.

Five minutes later, the situation had been resolved with apologies, paper towels, and two complimentary festival drink vouchers. Fortunately, the father had a good sense of humor once the initial shock wore off and enough paper towels had entered the conversation.

He laughed. The little boy declared Bandit his favorite goat. Ever. Which of course, Bandit accepted this praise with entirely too much confidence. He puffed himself up and trotted around the pen like he’d just won Best in Show instead of Best in Unexpected Nasal Discharge.

The morning rolled on.

Children laughed. The food trucks stayed busy. Happy chatter drifted from all the different vendors. Volunteers smiled instead of panicking. People wandered from booth to booth carrying lemonade, hot dogs, and oversized stuffed animals that looked larger than some of the children dragging them around.

Still no explosion. No great collapse. Everything was actually going… well.

And people actually thanked me.

Me. Sophie the disaster was a disaster no more. At least for the moment. I wasn’t naïve enough to think the universe had suddenly changed its opinion of me forever. It was probably just taking a coffee break.

Still, I’d take it as a win.

My stomach, my nerves, had spent the last forty-eight hours preparing for a complete catastrophe. All that anxiety had trained for this moment.

But so far, things were moving along smoothly.

And through it all, I was looking for Captain Competent.

I wouldn’t lie and pretend I wasn’t. Damn Lola and Dottie for putting ideas in my head. Ideas I’d already been thinking myself, but still. Before breakfast they’d just been thoughts. Now they refused to leave me alone.

I tried not to seem like I was looking for him, in case he was watching me.

So how does a woman spy on a man without him knowing?

She goes into full-on stealth mode, that’s what.

Which meant I’d casually glance around the square for the hot sheriff, and then I’d suddenly become deeply fascinated by absolutely everything else. Flower baskets. Garbage cans. The ticket booth. I even nodded thoughtfully at a recycling bin.

I was scanning the area with what I hoped was the relaxed curiosity of an event planner surveying her festival.

Not a crazy-ass stalker.

Which, admittedly, I kind of was at the moment.