Page 51 of The Goat Next Door

Ember is currently executing what looks like a high-stakes agricultural maneuver.

Nothing she does ever looks normal.

Every task somehow turns into a one-woman off-Broadway production about rural determination.

She’s wearing a pair of bright yellow overalls today—completely unfastened on one side, naturally—with a white top underneath, her gold curls tied into a massive, messy topknot with a piece of pink caution tape.

She’s pushing a manual, vintage lawn aerator—the kind with the heavy iron spikes—across her overgrown front yard, and she is giving it everything she’s got.

Every three steps, the spikes get stuck in the thick clover, and she has to put her entire weight into the handle, her boots lifting off the ground as she hitches her hips to clear the turf.

Kevin is trotting right behind her, occasionally chewing on the hem of her yellow denim strap.

Lauren’s mouth drops open, a slow, delighted grin spreading across her face as she watches the spectacle. “Oh my god. Brooks. Who is the golden sunshine creature currently battling the lawn?”

“That’s Emmy,” I say. “She bought Arthur’s place.”

“Emmy,” Lauren repeats, her eyes narrowing as she tracks the way Ember stops, wrinkles her nose, and yells something at the goat before giving the aerator an aggressive, hip-checking shove.

Lauren turns her head, her eyes fixing onto my face with a sharp, terrifyingly perceptive look that she only uses when she’s about to read my entire subconscious mind.

“The city girl Davis told me about on the phone? The lottery one?”

“Yeah.”

“And you… fixed her stove last weekend?” Lauren asks, her tone dropping into a low, sing-song lilt that makes my jaw instantly tighten.

“Her thermocouple was shot, Lo. It was a fire hazard,” I say, crossing my arms over my chest and staring very hard at a fence post. “I was doing my job.”

“Uh-huh,” Lauren says, a massive, knowing smirk breaking through her features. She looks back at Ember, then back at me, her eyes tracking the rigid line of my shoulders. “Brooks Lawson. You have your ‘operational crisis’ face on. Are you guys friends?”

“We’re neighbors,” I say flatly. “She doesn’t know how to use a hammer and she has millions in the bank. I’m just keeping her from burning the hollow down.”

“Oh, you are such a liar,” Lauren laughs, her silver bangles clinking as she claps her hands together. “Soph, is that the donut lady?”

“Yes!” Sophie pipes up. “She has many different overalls and she let me eat the pancake with the smiley face!”

“That’s it. I’m going over,” Lauren declares, already throwing her leg over the low wire fence before I can reach out to stop her.

“Lauren, don’t,” I warn, my heart doing a sudden, panicked skip. “She’s working. She’s… conceptualizing her exterior landscape or whatever she calls it.”

“Brooks, she’s pushing a manual spiked roller in eighty-five-degree heat while wearing caution tape in her hair,” Lauren calls back over her shoulder, her long orange skirt sweeping through the tall grass as she bolts across the property line. “She needs an intervention, and I need a creative peer in this valley who isn’t ninety years old!”

I let out a long, defeated groan, rubbing my temples with my palm before grabbing Sophie’s hand. “Come on, bug. We have to go make sure your mother doesn’t start a corporate text thread.”

By the time I clear the fence line and catch up, Lauren has already breached the perimeter.

Ember has stopped the aerator, leaning her hips against the heavy T-bar handle, her face flushed a bright, pretty pink under her gold curls. She’s staring at Lauren like a rare bird has just landed in her clover patch.

“Hi! I’m Lauren,” Lauren says, holding out a hand covered in rings. “I’m Sophie’s mom, and I am currently rescuing you from that iron torture device.”

Ember’s eyes widen, her mouth doing that little O-shape before she breaks into a massive, relieved grin.

“Oh thank God. I’ve been out here for forty minutes and I am ninety percent sure I’ve permanently dislocated my left hip. Emmy. It’s so nice to meet you. Your skirt is gorgeous.”

“Right?” Lauren beams, gesturing down to the orange fabric. “I found it in a thrift shop in Laos. So, you’re the graphic designer?”

“I was!” Ember says. She lets go of the handle and steps around the machine, completely ignoring me as I stop a few feet away with Sophie.