Page 64 of The Goat Next Door

Hazel’s eyes are wide, a brilliant, delighted pink rising in her cheeks. “Oh, my goodness. George used to hide those in the barn behind the tractor manuals. He thought I didn’t know, but I read three of them during the blizzard of ‘78. The ones by that woman Penelope Wild.”

“Penelope Wild is my mom,” I blurt out, my jaw dropping.

Hazel lets out a high-pitched, genuine squeal of delight, clapping her hands together. “No! The Highland Rogue’s Desire? That was her?”

“That was her fourth bestseller,” I laugh, completely abandoning my terrible crochet work. “The one where the Laird of Inverness holds the castle gates single-handedly while wearing nothing but a leather kilt? My dad spent three weeks researching the exact metallurgical composition of the gate hinges just so the historical accuracy wouldn’t ruin the tension.”

“Oh, the tension was not ruined,” Hazel gasps, her hand flying to her chest as Dotty lets out a loud, snorting cackle. “The part on the heather fields? I had to open the window and let the snow in, I was so flushed!”

“See?” Bernice says, pointing a knitting needle at Dotty. “I told you the city girl had pedigree. Penelope Wild! Wait till I tell Marge. She’s got three of those under her mattress right now.”

The atmosphere shifts instantly, the last remaining walls of small-town suspicion melting away into an avalanche of literary appreciation.

They grill me on the mechanics of chapter structure, how much research goes into a Victorian ballroom scene, and whether my parents ever use local inspiration for their characters.

“So,” Dotty says. “If you grew up around all that… romance architecture, how come you’re out here in the woods by yourself? No handsome lairds in Manhattan?”

“Manhattan is entirely populated by men who are afraid of gluten and commitment, Dotty,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “And besides, look at me. I am currently living in a house with zero functioning hot water, my hands are covered in Band-Aids, and I spent my morning arguing with a goat named Kevin. I am basically a walking, talking infrastructure crisis. There is nothing romantic going on.”

“What about Brooks?” Hazel asks, her voice dropping into a whisper. “He’s not afraid of gluten. He eats three of Marge’s sourdough rolls every morning before his shift.”

“Brooks has a five-year-old daughter who is currently my favorite person in this valley,” I say. “He’s a serious professional with a real life. I’m a former brand strategist who won the lottery and bought a rotted farm because I thought goats were cute. There is absolutely nothing going on there.”

Before Hazel can counter my thesis, a heavy, metallic thud echoes from the back of the basement, followed by the wet, squelching sound of heavy boots.

The door to the utility room swings open, and the man himself steps into the light.

Brooks is wearing his full rain-slicked turnout gear, the yellow reflective stripes on his heavy black jacket gleaming with moisture. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, water droplets dripping from his jawline, and he’s holding a heavy-duty flashlight in one hand and a pipe wrench in the other.

He stops dead in his tracks, his eyes blinking as he catches sight of the table. His gaze tracks across Bernice, Dotty, Hazel—and then locks onto me.

His eyebrows snap together. “Ember? What are you doing here?”

“I’ve been drafted into the local social intelligence agency,” I say, leaning back in my plastic chair and giving him a slow, coy smile. “We’re currently analyzing the emotional transparency of the local infrastructure. Also, we have taco dip.”

Brooks looks down at the plastic platter, then back at my face, looking completely caught off guard.

“There’s a flash flood warning for the lower ridge. The church basement has an ancient sump pump that likes to fail when the rainfall hits two inches an hour. I came to check the float valve.”

“Oh, don’t worry about the valve, Brooks,” Hazel chirps, her cheeks still a lovely shade of pink. “Ember was just telling us about her parents’ career. Did you know her mother is Penelope Wild? She wrote The Highland Rogue’s Desire.”

Brooks looks at Hazel, then cuts his eyes back to me, his brow furrowing. “Penelope Wild?”

“She’s a writer, Brooks,” I say, my voice dropping into a smooth, teasing purr as I lean forward, resting my chin on my hands. “She writes about very serious men with big… responsibilities. Men who wear leather kilts and have a lot of trouble expressing their feelings until they are properly ravished in a field of heather.”

Dotty lets out another loud, hacking laugh, and even Bernice has to cover her mouth with a dish towel.

Brooks’s ears turn a bright, unmistakable crimson against his dark hair.

He stares at me for one long, intense second, his mouth opening slightly before he shuts it with a sharp click. He shifts the pipe wrench to his left hand, his shoulders going entirely rigid under the heavy turnout jacket.

“Right,” he says, his voice rougher than usual. “The pump is in the back. I’ll be in the utility room.”

He turns on his heel, his heavy rubber boots squeaking loudly against the linoleum as he retreats into the shadows of the boiler room, shutting the door behind him with an authoritative snap.

Bernice waits until the door latches completely before she slams her wooden needles down on the table, her eyes flashing with absolute glee.

“See what I mean?” she whispers loudly. “Needs to loosen his corset. That boy is wound tighter than a snare drum.”