Page 22 of The Goat Next Door

“You can always leave.”

“And give up my flourishing career in hinge sanitation? Never.”

“Eight dollars,” she repeats. “Free coffee during your shift. Final offer.”

I stare at her for another second, then sigh like a defeated corporate negotiator. “Fine. But emotionally, I want you to know I’m volunteering.”

“If you’re one minute late, the door stays locked. Now get out of my shop. My sourdough is turning.”

A giant, genuine, uncontrollable smile breaks across my face—the first real one all day. “Thank you, Marge! I will be here at 5:50 AM. You won’t regret this!”

“I already regret it,” Marge mutters under her breath, but as I turn toward the door, I catch the briefest, most microscopic twitch at the corner of her mouth.

I march out of the bakery, the bell clanging wildly behind me, and step back onto Main Street feeling like I’ve just successfully negotiated a hostile corporate takeover.

I have a foot in the door. I have a local anchor point. I am officially an assistant flour bin technician in the township of Suncrest Hollow.

I take a massive, glorious bite of the cinnamon roll as I walk down the sidewalk.

The walk back to the Gilded Goat feels infinitely shorter than the walk into town, mostly because my brain is humming with adrenaline and design concepts for a bakery rebrand that Marge explicitly told me she doesn’t want.

I will wear her down eventually.

A good designer always wears the client down.

As I clear the final ridge and the silver-gray timbers of my barn come into view, my eyes dart toward the eastern perimeter line.

My heart does a sudden, violent jolt against my ribs.

The white car is parked in Brooks’s driveway.

He’s back.

The driver’s side door swings open, and Brooks steps out onto the gravel. He’s still wearing his dark blue fire department trousers and a heavy black t-shirt with the station logo faded across the back.

He reaches into the cab, grabs a heavy canvas tool bag, and slings it over his shoulder with a smooth, practiced movement that makes my breath catch in my throat.

He doesn’t look toward my house. He stops by the edge of his driveway, staring down at the sad, forty-five-degree tilt of his broken mailbox, his shoulders dropping in a silent, exhausted sigh.

I should probably feel guilty.

Instead, I’m wondering if I have time to reapply lip gloss before he reaches the property line.

Humiliating behavior.

Truly embarrassing for me as a person.

I stop walking, standing on the dirt path of my own property, my hands gripping the brown paper bag from Marge’s bakery.

I look down at my overalls, checking to make sure the white fabric isn’t completely covered in road dust. I touch my hair, ensuring the messy bun hasn’t collapsed into a structural hazard of its own.

Brooks turns his head then, his gray eyes locking onto me from across the boundary line.

He stands there for a long moment, the heavy tool bag hanging from his shoulder, his expression unreadable but intense.

He doesn’t wave. He doesn’t smile.

He just takes a slow, deep breath, adjusts the strap on his shoulder, and starts walking toward the property line—marching right toward my rotting, beautiful, chaotic farmhouse.