Page 26 of The Goat Next Door

“That happened one time!”

“It happened four times, Ember. I counted.”

“Details,” she waves a hand dismissively. She leans in, her voice dropping into a playful, mocking purr. “Mark my words, Fire Chief. I am going to make the best goat cheese you’ve ever tasted in your life.”

I fold my arms across my chest, looking down at her. “That’s a bold claim for a woman who just glued a caulk gun to a piece of cardboard.”

“Not a claim. A promise,” she says, her eyes locked onto mine. “You’ll eat it.”

“Maybe.”

“You’ll love it.”

“We’ll see.”

“And then you’ll thank me,” she whispers, a triumphant, wicked little smile spreading across her face. “A lot.”

I stare at her. My jaw clenches as a sudden, heavy wave of heat hits my gut, thick and demanding.

I look at the stubborn tilt of her chin, the bright, dangerous invitation in her eyes, and the way her lips part slightly as she waits for me to snap back with another sarcastic retort.

The bickering flies right out of my head.

Every practical, logical thought I have is drowned out by a need to lean across the six inches of air separating us, wrap my hand around the back of her neck, and find out exactly what that lip gloss tastes like.

Fuck the cheese. I don’t give a damn about the creamery, or the kitchen floor, or the farm.

I just want to taste her.

I want to press her back against the wood of this porch until she’s making a completely different kind of sound.

I swallow hard, forcing my hands to stay flat on my knees, my knuckles aching with the effort to keep my distance.

“You’re impossible,” I mutter, my voice dropping an octave.

“I prefer ambitious,” she murmurs.

“You prefer chaos.”

“That too.” She beams, completely unbothered by the heavy, sudden tension vibrating between us.

She stands up, dusting a few stray crumbs off her thighs, her light energy returning in a flash. “I can already see the label. The Gilded Goat Creamery. Sophisticated. Elegant. Award-winning.”

“Delusional,” I say, though my voice is still entirely too thick.

“Visionary.”

“Dangerous.”

“Gifted.”

I shake my head, looking down at my boots as I try to get my heart rate back under control. “Why do I even bother arguing with you?”

“Because you secretly enjoy it,” she says, backing toward her front door with a victorious laugh. “Just wait, Brooks. One day you’ll be eating my cheese and admitting I was right about everything.”

I watch her go, my eyes tracking the line of her back, the slight sway of her hips in the white denim. The sunlight frames her in gold as she reaches for the screen door, looking back over her shoulder like she’s personally declared war on my sanity.

The cheese is the absolute last thing on my mind.