Page 44 of The Goat Next Door

I freeze, my mug halfway to my mouth.

I look across the kitchen at her—the unbothered curve of her mouth, the ridiculous blue twine in her wild curls, the youthful energy radiating off her skin.

Twenty-five. Jesus. She’s barely out of college, and I’m a thirty-one-year-old with a five-year-old, a mortgage, and a valley full of ghosts.

A sharp panic hits my chest.

I cannot be looking at her like that.

“Right,” I say, my voice rougher than intended. “Twenty-five explains the hammer technique. And that you could move out here so easily. Just quit your job.”

Emmy lets out an indignant gasp, but she slides right back into her comfortable rhythm, saving me from the weight in the air. She steps forward until she’s standing directly in front of me, leaning her back against the counter.

“Excuse me! My hammer technique was a masterpiece,” she says. “But speaking of my job… I actually didn’t just quit. I tried freelancing first.”

“How’d that go?” I ask, glad to be talking about something else.

“Oh, it sucked,” she says cheerfully. “Turns out, when you work for yourself, your boss is still a lunatic—except now the lunatic also has to do her own taxes. I was living on ramen and crying in the shower for three months. And then, I won the lottery.”

I let out a dry breath, crossing my arms. “Right. You became a millionaire and just had to spend your money on a goat farm.”

“Well, I’ve always found goats cute,” she says, shrugging. She steps an inch closer, eyes locked onto mine, a small smile playing on her lips. “They have those horizontal pupils and they eat weeds. It seemed low-stress compared to Manhattan. And besides, if I hadn’t moved here, who would keep you on your toes?”

“I like safe, Emmy,” I say, my voice dropping. I don’t move away. I look down at her lips, then back up to her eyes. “Safe keeps my paperwork down.”

“Safe is boring, Chief,” she whispers, leaning in enough that her perfume cuts through the cleaner. She reaches out, her small finger lightly tapping the silver badge on my shirt. “Admit it. You were completely miserable before I drove my U-Haul into your life.”

“I was peaceful,” I correct her. My hand reaches up to grasp her wrist, stopping her finger against my chest. Her skin is warm, and my thumb rests against her pulse. “There’s a difference.”

“Peaceful is just another word for lonely,” she taunts softly.

She doesn’t pull her hand back. She stands there, her wrist in my grip, her face so close I can see the tiny gold flecks in her eyes.

I stare at her for a heavy beat, the silence in the kitchen turning electric. My jaw sets as I fight the urge to pull her the rest of the way against my chest.

“You’re a lunatic, Ember,” I mutter, my voice rough as I release her wrist and step back, breaking the spell.

“I am a visionary, Brooks,” she corrects, giving me that crooked, brilliant smile. “And I’m literally a millionaire. I should be sugar-mommying you right now.”

I snort. “Yeah? You gonna buy me a matching tool belt and a lake house too?”

“If you keep installing appliances shirtless like some emotionally unavailable HGTV host, absolutely.”

“You’re twenty-five,” I mutter. “You don’t get to say things like sugar mommy with a straight face.”

“And you’re thirty-one acting forty-seven,” she shoots back instantly. “Honestly, Brooks, this relationship has incredible economic potential. Think of the tax benefits.”

“Relationship?”

She grins over the rim of her coffee mug. “See? That’s the word you reacted to.”

I set my empty mug in the sink and check my watch. One-thirty.

“I’ve gotta get moving. I need to pick up Sophie from kindergarten.”

“Brooks,” she calls out as I walk toward the hallway.

I stop, looking back. She’s standing by the stove, the yellow afternoon light catching the gold in her hair.