Page 118 of The Goat Next Door

The “Closed” sign is already flipped toward the street.

“Thank you,” I call back over my shoulder, not even waiting for a response. I bolt toward my truck, already reaching for the keys, desperate to beat the light fading over the valley.

“Go get her, you big dummy!” Dotty shouts after me.

I jam the truck into reverse, the gravel spraying beneath the tires as I pull out of the lot. I drive straight toward our road, the black command truck tearing down the asphalt faster than it ever has for an emergency call.

Because this is an emergency.

The biggest one of my life.

I pull into my driveway, kill the engine, and don’t even bother closing the truck door. I sprint across the lawn, my eyes locked on the farmhouse.

I reach her steps, taking them two at a time, and throw open the screen door without knocking.

“Ember!”

She’s standing in the center of the kitchen, having just walked in from her bakery shift. The big apron is gone, but the flour-dusted pencil is still stuck in her messy bun.

She turns around at the sound of the door, her eyes wide, her face pale as she stares at me, completely caught off guard.

The flat, empty look from the bakery is gone, replaced by a sudden, sharp flicker of vulnerability that makes her look breathless.

I don’t give her a chance to speak. I don’t give her a chance to erect her defense cases or deliver a witty retort.

I close the distance between us in three massive strides, my arm reaching out to grab her, pulling her flush against my chest until the air leaves her in a sharp, startled gasp.

“Brooks, what are you—”

“I’m an idiot,” I say, my nose brushing against hers. “I’m a stupid, stubborn, terrified idiot, Emmy. And I’m done running.”

31

Ember

“The storm had already passed by the time

the warning sirens activated.”

— Valley Weather Service

I stiffen against him, my hands coming up to plant flat against his chest—not as an embrace, but as a barrier.

I don’t push him away, but I don’t hold onto him, either. I remain rigid, a statue of nerves and resentment.

A single, hot drop of moisture leaks out of my left eye. Then my right.

My face doesn’t scrunch up in the way one does when grief is a sudden, shocking blow. I don’t make that terrible, wet choking sound people make in the movies when they’re caught off guard by their own heartbreak.

I just stand there, anchored in his arms, and let the water run down my cheeks. My expression remains uncomfortably flat, my lips slightly parted as I watch the confidence slowly leak out of his eyes.

The dark, desperate hunger that had been written across his face when he burst through my door begins to curdle into confusion.

His fingers slacken against my hip, his grip losing that possessive, grounding strength it held just seconds ago. He’s realizing, in real-time, that the apology he rehearsed isn’t going to work like a key in a lock.

“Ember?” he whispers, his voice thick with a mixture of hope and dawning dread. “Hey. Look at me. Don’t do that. Don’t cry. I’m here.”

I blink, the tears blurring the sharp, handsome lines of his face. “I know,” I say. “That’s the problem, Brooks. You’re just… back.”