Page 88 of The Goat Next Door

The humidity settles into the valley like a wet wool blanket, and the massive industrial mixer in the corner lets out a high-pitched, mechanical whine as it whips four gallons of heavy cream into stiff peaks for the weekend tarts.

Marge stands at the central wooden bench, her arms coated in a thick layer of pastry flour that reaches all the way to her elbows. She hacks a block of cold butter into perfect cubes with a metal scraper, her timing so rhythmic it sounds like an axe hitting a chopping block.

“You’re off your game today, Emmy,” she says without looking up. “The apricot danishes are sitting right in the draft. If the glaze sets before the steam leaves the pastry, they’re going to look gray by tomorrow morning.”

“The glaze is fine, Marge,” I say, wiping a line of sweat and white flour dust off my forehead with the back of my sleeve. “I’m just keeping an eye on the driveway.”

“Clearly,” she mutters, her eyebrows drawing together as she shoves another sheet pan into the rack. “Brooks’s truck has passed the four-way stop three times since noon. Either he’s suddenly very invested in the county road gravel, or he’s completely lost his mind.”

Before I can come up with a neutral response, the heavy oak screen door gives a short, double rattle.

Brooks steps onto the threshold.

He doesn’t come all the way into the kitchen—he never does when Marge is in the middle of a rush—but his massive frame blocks out the blinding afternoon sun, casting a long shadow straight across my stainless steel station.

He’s wearing a faded gray work shirt with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder, revealing the thick, corded muscle of his forearms, dark with a few grease smudges. His dark hair is damp from the midday heat, and his jaw is set in that hard, stubborn line I’m starting to know by heart.

“Marge,” he nods, his deep voice cutting through the whine of the mixer.

“Brooks,” Marge says. “If you’re looking for a handout, the raspberry knots aren’t out of the oven yet.”

“I’m not looking for a handout.”

His eyes slide away from her, shifting across the narrow kitchen until they lock onto me. His gaze travels down to my flour-dusted apron strings, then back up to my face, his expression unreadable but his eyes dark and intense.

“I’m clearing some fallen brush on the lane after my shift. The county crew has the main road blocked off until six.”

I stay perfectly still, a pastry brush held tight in my right hand. “That’s right by my place.”

“Yeah,” he says, shifting his weight, his fingers tracing the edge of his belt. “Sophie’s staying down at her grandmother’s house tonight. She wanted to finish that painting she started, so she won’t be back up the hill until tomorrow morning. The house is going to be completely quiet.”

Marge lets out a sharp sound from the butter bench. “Well, at least the kid gets a break from your cooking.”

“She’s taken care of,” Brooks says simply. He looks at me for one more long, silent second, his jaw twitching once before he steps back onto the gravel. “Keep your car off the main driveway later, Ember. The gravel is soft from the rain.”

The screen door clicks shut.

I look down at the apricot danishes, my heart doing a heavy, fast thumping against my ribs that has absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the kitchen.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

I’ve been home from the bakery for an hour, my shoes dropped by the bench in the mudroom and my bare feet tracing the cool grains of my kitchen floorboards. The house is incredibly quiet—the kind of thick silence that sets into the hollow the second the sun goes down.

I am standing by the open parlor window, a cup of lukewarm tea held between both hands, watching the black line of the maples that separates my driveway from his.

There are no lights on in his house next door. The windows are nothing but dark rectangles against the cedar siding.

Then, a shadow moves across the grass.

He crosses the yard with long, steady strides, his boots making no sound on the lawn until he hits the bottom step of my porch. The third board creaks—a short, flat groan—and the screen door swings open with a soft, careful click.

Brooks steps into the parlor. He’s changed into a faded black t-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders.

“Ember.”

I set the tea down on the windowsill, the ceramic clicking sharply against the wood. I don’t look at him right away, letting the silence stretch, just to see if he’ll fidget.

He doesn’t.