Page 63 of Made for Mayhem

“Yeah,” I said. “Today, I think I am.”

Violet had given me permission for one more day of denial, sunshine, and bad dancing.

And today, I was going to take it.

14

I stared down into brown, beady little eyes, wondering how the hell my life had turned into this.

A tiny piglet stood in the middle of Hudson Hardware, pink snout snuffling at a stray screw left on the floor. Black-and-white patches covered her round little body, one eye smudged in black like a pirate's patch. Her hooves made the faintest tapping sounds against the old wooden floor, curious about everything. She looked like a football with legs.

A warm, squeaky, living football.

“This is not how my Tuesday was supposed to go,” I muttered, leaning against the counter.

Rowdy huffed from his usual spot near the register, resting his chin on his paws. His whole expression said, you’ve officially lost it.

I rubbed a hand over my face, still reeling from the fact that a volunteer from the county animal rescue had dropped off a piglet twenty minutes ago, handed me a half-empty bottle of formula and a bag of feed, then hurried back to her truck with a promise to call later.

She’s not keeping weight on, she’d said. We were hoping you might help. Just for now.

Just for now. Famous last words.

“Well,” I said to the empty store. “Now what?”

The piglet answered by snuffling closer and chewing on the toe of my boot. She was warm against my calf, and when I bent to scoop her up, she fit in the crook of my arm. Her round little belly rose and fell fast against my palm.

“You’re kinda cute. I’m not sure this is what the grief counselors meant by stability and routine, though.”

I grabbed my phone, thumb flying as I searched how to take care of a mini potbelly piglet. A dozen links popped up at once.

Warm bedding.

Socialization.

Heat lamps.

Vaccines.

Bottle feeding.

Enclosures.

I exhaled slowly. I had most of that—straw in the barn, heat lamps left over from chick season, and an old dog kennel I could scrub down and set up inside.

The rescue had sent her with a bottle and formula to get through the night, but not much more than that.

“So,” I muttered, eyeing her round belly before setting her down on the counter, “we’re improvising.”

The piglet made a soft grunt, curled into a little loaf on top of a stack of lumber receipts, and closed her eyes. Rowdy stared up at me, his dark eyes carrying more than a little judgment—even as his tail gave a soft thump against the floor.

“Don’t look at me like that.” I shook my head. “This one’s not on me.”

As if my day hadn’t already gone off the rails, my phone lit up with a call from Beckett. My pulse kicked immediately.

“Is she okay?” I asked, already regretting dropping Junie off at the rink with him this morning after her meltdown. She’d said she wanted to go, but I should’ve known she wasn’t ready. “Tell me she’s okay.”

“She’s fine,” Beckett said, and I sagged against the counter. “Junie asked if she could take a nap in Tate’s office instead of sitting on the bench with me. She’s not upset, but I think she hit her limit today.”