Page 39 of The Goat Next Door

We walk side by side through the tall grass between the houses, the evening air cool against my soot-streaked skin. The distance isn’t far, but it’s enough that the soft golden light glowing from his kitchen windows feels strangely intimate against the darkening pasture beyond it.

I glance over at him as we walk. “Just so we’re clear, if Sophie asks, I absolutely know how to operate a stove. This was an isolated systems failure.”

“The stove knob snapped off in your hand, Emmy.”

“Mechanical betrayal.”

“You filled the kitchen with gas.”

“Allegedly.”

Brooks exhales a quiet laugh through his nose, shaking his head once as he opens the side screen door and gestures me inside.

Brooks’s kitchen is exactly what I expected: clean, terrifyingly organized, and smelling faintly of cedar and coffee. There are no peeling layers of wallpaper here, no ancient green monsters waiting to combust.

It’s a functional, safe world.

“Alright, Chief,” I say, stepping up to his modern, stainless-steel stove. I turn around, leaning my hips against the counter, crossing my arms over my denim overalls. “You’ve successfully kidnapped the city girl. What’s the protocol? Do I get to touch the buttons, or am I strictly on observation duty?”

Brooks is standing by the sink, rinsing the soot off my heirloom tomatoes. He doesn’t look up, but I see the corner of his mouth twitch. “You are on observation duty until I’m sure you won’t set my countertops on fire, Emmy. Pick up that wooden spoon. Don’t swing it.”

“I’ll have you know I am an excellent stirrer,” I say, stepping into his space to snatch a knife from the magnetic strip on the wall. “I stir things up for a living. It’s on my resume.”

“I believe you,” he murmurs.

He turns around, his frame instantly crowding me against the edge of the sink. He reaches behind my back to grab a cutting board, his chest brushing right against my arm.

Every coherent thought immediately exits my body.

There is simply no reason a man should smell that good while discussing cookware.

He stays there for a second, entirely too close, his eyes looking down into mine with a slow, deliberate heat. “But around here, we keep the drama to a minimum. Can you handle that?”

“No,” I whisper honestly before I can stop myself.

His mouth twitches.

“I don’t do drama, Brooks. I do flair,” I say, my voice dropping its sarcastic edge as I look up at his jawline. The proximity is doing terrible things to my ability to think straight. “There’s a difference.”

“Yeah? Well, your flair nearly took out your eastern wall today,” he says, his voice a low, gravelly vibration.

He doesn’t move back. He just leans in a fraction of an inch closer, his thumb lightly brushing a stray speck of soot off my cheekbone. His touch is warm, rough, and entirely too steady.

“Daddy!” Sophie’s voice cuts through the kitchen from the hallway. “Can Emmy come see my room? I have the big triceratops!”

Brooks steps back, clearing his throat, though his eyes stay locked on mine for one more heavy beat before he turns toward the stove.

“Go on,” he grunts. “Go look at the dinosaur before she comes back in here and catches you trying to steal my cutlery.”

“Don’t miss me too much, hot neighbor,” I throw over my shoulder, giving him a wink before I duck out of the room.

Sophie’s room is a small kingdom of pink blankets, plastic blocks, and an impressive collection of prehistoric reptiles.

For the next twenty minutes, I am thoroughly briefed on the dietary habits of the stegosaurus and the dramatic social life of her stuffed animals.

It’s sweet, and it’s so completely heartwarming that it makes a strange, tight ache form right in the center of my chest.

Eventually, I manage to negotiate a temporary release for good behavior. “I have to go help your dad make sure the pasta doesn’t turn into a giant sticky ball, Soph. Can you finish building the dinosaur castle?”