Page 104 of The Goat Next Door

“Magenta,” I correct him, grinning. “It’s a design choice.”

“It’s amazing,” Mother declares, grabbing the gin and pulling us toward the porch. “Now, tell me everything. Where is the man? The Chief? I have a hundred questions. Does he have a uniform? Because if he looks like a romance novel cover, I need to know immediately so I can prepare my vocabulary.”

I feel my face heat up.

Great. My parents are here to perform an autopsy on my love life. I should have moved to Alaska. Or the moon.

“He’s… next door, Mom. He’s busy.”

Mother narrows her eyes, a slow, predatory smile spreading across her face. “Busy? Or are we currently in the ‘tormented tension’ stage of the plot arc? Because based on that flush in your cheeks, I’d say we’re in the middle of a very slow, very satisfying burn. Is there tension? Tell me there’s tension. I need friction for the draft.”

“We are not in a burn,” I insist, grabbing their bags. “We are in the stage where he fixes my floorboards and I try not to lose my mind.”

“That is literally the definition of a burn, darling,” Dad says, wandering into the kitchen and inspecting the table. He runs a hand along the edge, then winks at Mom.

“Though, the table is a bit wobbly. Needs more structural integrity. A lot of friction required to get things properly braced, wouldn’t you say, Clara?”

Mother giggles, a high, girlish sound that makes them look more like teenagers than people in their sixties. “Oh, absolutely, Jules. Things that are poorly braced just tend to rattle around too much. It’s sloppy. One needs a firm hand to keep the furniture—and the occupants—in place.”

I am dying. My parents are essentially two horny teenagers in linen.

“Please,” I groan, covering my face. “I am begging you to keep the double entendres to a minimum.”

“Darling, we’ve been married thirty years,” he says, pulling Mom into his side and kissing her temple. “We’ve learned that the only way to keep the engine from stalling is to keep the conversation lubricated. It’s a delicate balance of tension and release. Like a good plot twist.”

“Or a very good martini,” Mother adds, already reaching for the gin. “Now, where is this Chief?”

“The Chief is a control freak,” I mutter, starting to pull out wine glasses.

“Every good hero is,” Mother says. She sighs dramatically, looking around the kitchen. “Though, darling, I’m still a little heartbroken that you refused to use any of that money for a proper shopping spree. It’s tragic. We could have been in Paris buying vintage Dior.”

“I transferred you both money!” I say, rolling my eyes as I pour the gin. “You didn’t need to be so dramatic about it.”

“It’s not about the money, Emmy!” Mom wails, taking a glass and clinking it against mine. “It’s about the experience. It’s never half as fun to shop without my favorite girl beside me.”

“Next time,” I promise.

“The Chief is a control freak,” Dad repeats, leaning back against the counter and pulling Mom closer until their hips are locked. “Does he wear a uniform? I need to know if it’s tactical or traditional. And does he have a walk-around? Because if he doesn’t have a walk-around, he’s clearly not taking his role as a neighbor seriously.”

“He wears a t-shirt and work boots, Dad. Don’t start.”

“Too late,” Mother says, already opening her laptop. “Give us the full breakdown.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

“The bear trap is too cliché,” Dad says, tapping his chin with the end of the pen. “It lacks sensory weight. If he’s a forester, he shouldn’t just fall into an old iron jaw. He should be pinned by a secondary deadfall. A cedar trunk that’s been hanging by a thread since the freeze in January. Very symbolic, don’t you think? Holding onto something for dear life until it snaps?”

“And she finds him because of the crows,” Mother adds, her fingers flying across her keyboard. “A man like that wouldn’t shout. He’d just sit there in the dark, bleeding into the moss, waiting for the fever to take him. It’s much more atmospheric. More… probing.”

“Mom!” I choke on my drink, nearly spraying gin across the table.

“Shush, darling! It’s all about the intensity. Speaking of which, when do we get to meet this hot neighbor? I want to see if his shoulders match his description. Does he have that ‘I’m going to carry you to safety whether you want me to or not’ build?”

I ignore her and move between the stove and the sink, pouring the remains of the gin over ice.

“You’re pacing, Emmy,” Dad says, not looking up. “And you’re pouring too much tonic. We might as well be drinking well water. You’re diluting the spirit, my dear. Not good for the nerves.”

“I’m not pacing and you’re an alcoholic,” I lie. I’m trying to stop my brain from replaying the way Brooks looked when he took his shirt off.