Page 74 of The Goat Next Door

I stand by the silver tank for three long breaths, the wrench heavy in my hand, my heart hammering against my ribs.

My jeans feel tight, that hot, heavy ache pulling at my stomach as I watch her wrestle a mangled paperback out of a goat’s jaws, her laughter ringing out across the pasture.

Six years, I repeat, the words tasting like copper. Six years.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

The valley is still, the kind of heavy, humid summer quiet that usually makes my skin itch. Sophie’s at her grandmother’s, leaving my cabin with that hollow, stagnant silence that usually drives me to drink or work until my hands bleed.

I’m on the front porch, the cedar planks warm under my socks. Shirtless, jeans low on my hips, a cold beer sweating against my thigh. Across the gravel lane the Gilded Goat’s porch light flickers to life, humming with a pathetic, buzzing energy.

A second later, the screen door whines open.

Emmy.

She’s wearing a pair of those loose, short cotton lounge shorts and a white tank top that’s doing zero favors for my blood pressure. Her gold curls are a chaotic mess held together by a plastic claw clip that looks like it’s fighting for its life.

She’s carrying a kitchen chair in one hand and a giant blue plastic bowl in the other. She drops the chair, flops into it, and rests the bowl on her lap like she’s about to sacrifice a goat.

I lean back, watching her through the dusk.

She doesn’t see me. She starts whipping the contents of that bowl with a massive metal whisk, her shoulder working in a violent, rhythmic circle. Every three seconds, the metal slams against the sides with a loud, aggressive thwack.

“You’re going to wake up the whole damn county with that, Emmy,” I call out.

She freezes. The whisk stays mid-air. She blinks against the glare of her own light, squinting until her eyes lock onto me in the shadows.

A slow, wicked smile creeps across her face—the kind that spells trouble.

“It’s cheese, Brooks,” she calls back, standing up and marching toward the edge of her porch. “Real, artisanal cheese. I ordered a starter culture online. It cost forty-two dollars, so you can either respect the process or go back to your brooding.”

“Forty-two dollars?” I let out a harsh, disbelieving laugh. “You’re a sucker. You’re getting absolutely fleeced, and you’re still gonna find a way to let it rot in the bowl.”

“It’s French,” she says. She crosses the gravel lane like she owns the dirt under her feet, swaying those hips just enough to make sure I’m watching.

She stops at the bottom of my steps, looking up. I don’t move. I stay slouched against the wall, peering at her over the condensation of my beer bottle.

“Look at you,” she says, her voice dropping to a teasing, condescending purr. She leans a hip against my railing, her gaze raking over my bare torso, then down to my knees. “Off duty? No tools? Just sitting here in the dark like a hermit. Are you sulking, Brooks, or just waiting for someone to come by and entertain you?”

“I’m off,” I say, my voice dropping an octave, turning rougher as she takes a step up onto my porch. “And you need to keep your voice down. Mel drives past here in ten minutes. I don’t need the neighborhood watch seeing the ‘crazy city girl’ creeping on my porch at night.”

“Oh, right,” she says, her smile turning predatory. She takes another step, invading my space, looming over my chair. “Heaven forbid the local golden boy gets caught with a woman who doesn’t knit sweaters for the church bazaar. It might ruin your perfect, boring reputation.”

“I’m serious, Emmy,” I mutter, my eyes dragging down to her mouth. “People talk here. You have no idea how fast they’ll strip you down once they decide you’re the entertainment for the week.”

“Let them talk,” she whispers, leaning in closer.

She dips an index finger into that white, creamy mixture, scoops up a glob, and holds it out to my face, her eyes glinting with a challenge.

“Taste it. Tell me if I’m as incompetent as you keep insisting.”

I look at her finger, then up at her dark, defiant eyes. My throat feels like it’s filled with sand. “I’m not eating that, Emmy.”

“Come on,” she mocks, her voice dropping to a low, provocative murmur. She brushes the cream against my bottom lip, leaving a cool, sticky trace against my stubble. “Don’t be such a prude. Just try it. Unless you’re afraid of a little risk?”

My restraint—the flimsy wall I’ve been building for weeks—shatters. I reach out, my fingers wrapping hard around her wrist, stopping her movement.

“You’re playing with fire,” I say, pulling her wrist sharply.