After another long pause of consideration, the woman turns and wobbles back to the counter. “You’ll need to carry it out. I can’t manage it with my hip actin’ up and Kent is out.”

“No problem.” I press my lips together to contain my delight—I would have forked over ten times that amount—and dig the cash out of my wallet. Lifting the heavy, awkward table, I scurry out the door like a lucky thief.

Until I get outside.

“Shit,” I curse under my breath, as I eye the old snow machine sitting in the parking lot.

I was so overjoyed, I momentarily forgot how I got here.

I spend five minutes cursing Jonah for being at work and the moose for stepping into the path of my truck during my road test while trying to maneuver the table onto my lap in a way that will allow me to steer. I finally accept that I have no way of getting this thing home without risking either getting pulled over by the cops or crashing.

I consider taking it back inside and asking the old woman to hold it for me but quickly dismiss that idea, afraid she’ll wise up and change her mind. I would deserve it, given I lied to her.

Jonah won’t be home for hours.

I call the only other person I know in Trapper’s Crossing.

Toby’s burgundy pickup pulls into the thrift shop parking lot fifteen minutes after I texted him. I haven’t seen him in two weeks, since I brought the second Ski-Doo in for maintenance.

He eases in next to where I’m sitting on the seat of my snow machine, hugging my precious find. He cuts the loud, rumbling diesel engine and hops out, his boots landing heavy on the ground.

“Hey. Thank you so much for coming. And so quickly.”

“Yeah. No problem. That engine can wait.” He scratches the scruff on his chin—it’s grown even longer in the weeks since I first met him—as he surveys the coffee table on my lap curiously. “You said you needed my help with something important?”

I pat the surface and drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “This table is worth a shit ton of money and I scored it for fifty bucks, which is insane, but I can’t get it back on my own and I don’t trust that lady in there not to change her mind about selling it to me.”

“Moving a coffee table. That’s what you needed help with,” he says slowly.

“Yeah.” I wince sheepishly and wait for annoyance to appear on his face.

But he only shakes his head. “Why didn’t you bring your truck?”

I groan. “Because I backed into a moose while parallel parking and failed my road test and, I swear to God, if you tell anyone, we are no longer friends!” Which would be more a punishment to me than him, I suspect, given he’s my only friend in Trapper’s Crossing and he’s barely more than an acquaintance.

“You backed into a moose.” His voice drifts as his features transform with a grin. “Hey, have you ever watched Schitt’s Creek?”

“No? Is that a TV show?” The name does sound vaguely familiar. “Does someone hit a moose during their road test on it? Please tell me someone does.”

“No. Nothing like that. This entire moment reminds me of that show for some strange reason.” He shifts his attention back to the table. “Can I throw that thing in the truck bed, or do you need it Bubble-Wrapped and swaddled in blankets?”

“Do you have Bubble Wrap and blankets?” I’m only half joking.

He chuckles. “No. But maybe Candace does? She’s the lady who runs the store.”

“Why don’t we try sliding it into the backseat?” Because my guilt over my lie is beginning to fester, especially now that I know her name.

He pops open the door and heaves the table off my lap. “Did you carry this out?” When I nod, he frowns curiously. “You’re a lot stronger than you look.”

“More like highly motivated. There’s a table like this for a grand online that I’ve been dying to buy, but Jonah was giving me grief.”

He lets out a long, slow whistle. “Don’t blame him. Especially since someone probably donated it to her. That, or she found it in the trash.”

I gasp, which earns his laugh.

Toby eases the table in carefully, whether to protect the table or his truck, I can’t be sure. The table just fits. “Candace gave me my first pair of skates when I was nine. Found them out in a dump, good as new. Then every year after that, she’d show up at my door in October with a pair one size bigger. She did that right up till I was like seventeen. She’s always been good to me.”

“Well, I feel like a real asshole,” I mutter.

Toby slams the door shut. “Why?”

I pull on my helmet. “Never mind.”

He reaches for the driver’s-side door handle. “Meet you back at your place?”

“Go slow!”

Toby is sitting on our front steps when I speed up the driveway a few minutes after him, the table already unloaded and waiting by the front door.

Zeke stands about twenty feet away, eying Toby, shifting on his hooves as if ready to bolt at any sudden movement.

I groan as I cut the engine. Jonah must have forgotten to coil the wire around the latch this morning when he went to feed them. It’s the only thing Bandit can’t figure out.

The second I slide my helmet off, the old goat trots toward me, bleating noisily.

“I tried catching him but he wouldn’t come!” Toby hollers.

“Yeah, he hates men.” I climb off the snow machine.

“You probably shouldn’t let a goat wander around loose like that. He’s easy pickin’ for wolves and bears.”

“We don’t let him. Our raccoon keeps letting him out.” I scowl as I sidestep to avoid Zeke nipping at my coat. At least I don’t have the same visceral reaction when I see him anymore. It’s worn off, replaced by general annoyance.

Toby’s eyebrows arch. “Your raccoon?”

“Unfortunately. Be back in a minute.”

“If you unlock the door, I can put this thing inside for you,” Toby offers.

I toss him my keys and then head around back, scolding Zeke as he trots after me, a spring to his step. When the goat is safely back in his pen—for the moment—I make my way inside, happy for the warmth.

Toby is standing in our living room, his hands on his hips, taking in the relatively barren space.

I feel the stupid grin stretch over my face as I eye the coffee table he’s already set in front of the couch. It looks even better than I’d imagined. The area rug I have sitting in an online shopping cart, waiting to be ordered, will finish off the room. “Thank you so much for helping me.”

“Yeah. No problem.” He waves it off. “Man, this place looks so different.”

“That’s the goal.” In the weeks since we moved in, we’ve managed to refinish the floors on the main floor—a messy, six-day process that involved renting a sander, knee pads that didn’t completely eliminate the ache, and gallons of stain and polyurethane that, despite wearing gloves, I’m still scrubbing off my skin. But the result is worth the effort. Our dark-walnut floors bring a fresh, new feel to the space.

“I should consider shopping at the thrift store more often. Or the dump, maybe.” I toss my purse onto the kitchen counter. “Words I never thought I’d say.”