Page 19 of The Goat Next Door

Ten minutes later, I am walking down the gravel driveway, making sure to step entirely around the tragic, broken remains of Brooks’s mailbox.

I glance toward his property.

His driveway is still empty.

My chest does a weird, unauthorized little flutter at the memory of his rough fingers brushing against my forearm while he taught me how to coil that extension cord.

“You’re a headache,” he had said in that deep, gravelly voice.

“A charming headache,” I remind myself, flipping my hair over my shoulder as I hit the main road.

He promised he would come by after his shift today to help me with the structural issues. He explicitly said he would come back, even though he looked like he wanted to swallow his own tongue immediately after saying it.

But I can’t just sit on the porch like a damsel in distressed denim waiting for the fire department to save me.

After my very brief, highly dramatic mental breakdown last night, I actually walked through the house room by room.

And honestly?

It’s… not that bad.

Yes, there are approximately fourteen thousand things that need fixing, and at least three sections of flooring that feel unsafe, but nothing is actively collapsing.

Probably.

Some of it is actually gorgeous beneath the dust and disaster, too.

There’s this enormous antique mirror in the upstairs hallway with carved gold detailing that caught the morning light so perfectly I literally stopped and stared at it for a full minute.

When I hit Main Street thirty minutes later, the morning sun is warm, and the town center actually looks incredibly beautiful today—like a vintage postcard, if you ignore the lingering aura of social hostility.

I see the maple syrup woman from yesterday, whose name I have decided is Gertrude, exiting the local dry cleaners. I slide my sunglasses down the bridge of my nose, flash her my most winning, million-dollar corporate smile, and wave.

“Good morning! Beautiful weather we’re having!”

Gertrude stops dead on the sidewalk, looks at my white overalls, looks at my red lipstick, lets out a small, sharp tsk, and walks straight to her station wagon without returning the greeting.

She doesn’t even look back as she backs out of the space.

“Okay, a difficult demographic,” I mutter, my smile faltering for a fraction of a second.

I try again at the local pharmacy.

An older man in a flannel shirt is coming out the door holding a bottle of antacids. I step up, holding the heavy wooden door for him with an enthusiastic tilt of my head.

“After you, sir! Have a wonderful Saturday!”

He stops, squints at me through his thick lenses, mutters, “Yep,” and shuffles past me without making eye contact.

By the time I make it past the town square, I am zero for four.

The local community is a wall of judgment.

Every time my boots squeak against the pavement, I can practically hear the collective sigh of a hundred people who wish I would take my cash, my glitter, and my corporate design degree back to the highway.

And then, the scent hits me.

It’s the rich, buttery, intoxicating aroma of caramelizing sugar, toasted yeast, and fresh cinnamon.