Page 35 of The Goat Next Door

“You’re enjoying this,” she gasps, her face flushed as she stares at me. “You’ve been waiting all week to torture the city girl.”

A loud, giggling snort breaks the tension.

Sophie is standing by the counter, hands over her mouth, pigtails shaking as she laughs at Emmy’s squirming.

Ember instantly turns toward the kid, tears forgotten. “Oh, you think my agonizing demise is funny, Princess Sophie? You think the great flour bin war is a joke?”

“You made a funny face,” Sophie giggles, stepping closer.

“That was my face of extreme bravery,” Emmy clarifies, whispering conspiratorially. She’s still wincing as I apply the ointment. “Your father is secretly a medieval torturer. Don’t let the nice uniform fool you. He washes hands with liquid fire.”

“It’s just medicine,” Sophie says, leaning her elbows on the edge of the table to watch me smooth the bandage down.

“Well, your daddy has large, unfeeling rescue-worker hands,” Emmy says, her eyes flicking up to mine for a heavy, silent second before she looks back at Sophie. “My hands are delicate. They’re meant for typing high-level design strategies, not battling fifty-year-old aluminum.”

“You have white stuff in your hair,” Sophie points out, reaching out a tiny finger toward Ember’s cheek.

“That’s because I’m currently disguised as a donut,” Emmy says, leaning down so she’s eye-level with the kid. “If you eat too many donuts, you turn into one. It’s a very dangerous local curse.”

I watch the two of them, hands frozen over the first-aid kit. Emmy’s voice is light, her expression animated even though she looks like she could fall asleep mid-sentence.

She’s good with her.

She doesn’t talk down to her; she just slides right into Sophie’s world without missing a beat.

“Alright,” I say, snapping the kit shut to break the spell. “The hand is clean. Keep it dry. And don’t put any more gloves over it until it scabs.”

“Yes, doctor,” Emmy says, rolling her eyes.

She looks down at Sophie. “So, Sophie. Since your dad just saved me from amputation, and since I am currently a culinary professional with access to the finest unbaked goods in the county… what do you think about dinner tomorrow?”

I stare at her for a second, genuinely trying to figure out how her brain works.

She’s exhausted, injured, running on caffeine fumes and pure determination, and somehow she’s already planning dinner parties.

Sophie’s eyes light up. “Dinner here?”

“Absolutely,” Emmy says. “I will cook something spectacular. Pasta. With actual sauce. And maybe a dessert, if your dad lets you have fun.”

“Yes! Daddy, can we? Can we please?” Sophie is at my side, tugging on the hem of my t-shirt. “She said pasta!”

I rub the back of my neck, the grease under my cuticles catching on my skin.

I look at Ember’s kitchen—the half-finished floor, the lack of groceries, and the woman herself, who looks like she needs about forty-eight hours of sleep.

“Ember, you can barely stand up,” I say. “You don’t need to be cooking dinner for anyone tomorrow. Just rest.”

Her shoulders slump.

Emmy’s lower lip pushes out into a dramatic pout that is entirely too effective.

“Oh, look at him. The dream-crusher. The extinguisher of joy.” She turns back to Sophie. “See that, Soph? He’s denying us the ancient tradition of neighborly bonding. Probably because he’s afraid I’ll out-cook him.”

“Daddy, come on,” Sophie pleads. It’s a unified front of manipulation, and it’s completely unfair.

“I have a shift drop-off tomorrow afternoon anyway,” I say, trying to find a logical exit. “And I’ve got to finish the alternator on the truck.”

“The alternator takes an hour,” Emmy says, leaning her chin on her uninjured hand. Her wild curls tumble over her knuckles as she smirks at me. “And a man’s gotta eat. Come on, my grumpy fireman neighbor. Don’t be a statistic. Break bread with the city girl. I promise I won’t poison you.”