Page 94 of The Goat Next Door

Specifically, the way she tastes. The way she sounds when she finally breaks—the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard.

My cock twitches, heavy and demanding against my denim. It’s a constant, dull ache that’s only getting worse.

I want her legs wrapped around me, I want to feel her gasping against my chest, and I want to hear her say my name when I finally slide inside her.

My phone vibrates in the cup holder.

Ember: The goat shed looks significantly less like a dumpster fire now. Don’t get used to the professionalism.

I let out a breath, my thumb hovering over the screen.

I shouldn’t reply.

Me: Professionalism isn’t usually your style anyway. You doing okay?

She replies almost instantly.

Ember: I’m currently covered in more paint than the shed is. I think I’m officially a part of the woodwork now. Still coming by later?

The later hangs in the air like a promise. I don’t type Yes. I don’t type I can’t wait. I just lock the screen, but my pulse is racing.

Nana’s place sits at the very end—a low-slung, white-painted farmhouse with a green tin roof that’s turned the color of river moss. The house feels like it’s sinking half an inch into the loam every decade, settling itself deep into the earth.

When the engine dies, the silence of the woods rushes back. Before I can even unlatch my door, the screen door gives that double-clack screech of a rusty spring.

Nana steps out onto the porch, her old blue cardigan pinned at the throat with a silver brooch. She’s small—shrinking, really—but she carries herself with that iron-backed posture that used to terrify the town’s troublemakers.

From around the corner of the woodpile, Sophie comes scrambling out, her pink sneakers crunching through the gravel, holding her green plastic bucket like it’s the Holy Grail.

“Don’t you dare bring that mud onto my linoleum, Sophie Louise,” Nana calls out, her voice crisp and clear across the yard. “I just spent an hour with the wet mop, and my hips aren’t up for another round with the Pine-Sol.”

“They’re sophisticated, Nana!” Sophie shouts, skidding to a halt. “They have a portfolio!”

Nana peers over the top of her apron, eyes narrowing. “A portfolio, is it? Did that city girl teach you that word, or have you been listening to the radio again?”

“Ember said it,” Sophie says proudly, pivoting to show me the bucket.

I let out a heavy breath, my boots hitting the dirt with a dull thud. “Afternoon, Nana.”

“It’s four in the afternoon, Brooks,” she says, her eyes shifting over Sophie’s head to pin me. “And you look like something the cat dragged out of the culvert. Did you sleep after that ridge fire, or did you just stare at the pressure gauges until your eyes turned red?”

“I slept,” I lie. “Steering was acting up.”

“The truck always has a hitch when you’re avoiding something,” she says, the sharpness in her tone softening into that knowing, teasing weight. She reaches out, her wrinkled hand catching Sophie by the shoulder.

“Go on around to the rain barrel, Soph. There’s some wilted chard in the compost bin. If those snails eat my geraniums, I’m turning them into bait.”

“They only eat the weeds,” Sophie mutters, but she’s already moving, pigtails swinging.

Once Sophie is gone, Nana turns her full attention to me.

She steps out onto the porch, her house shoes scuffing the boards. She reaches up, her fingers cool and firm as she catches my chin, turning my face to the light to examine me.

“Your pops had that same look when the forest burnt in sixty-eight,” she says, her thumb brushing my jaw. “Thought if he didn’t stay awake to watch the embers, the whole valley would dissolve into smoke. You’ve got his nose, Brooks, but you don’t have to take his stubbornness wholesale. It’s a terrible habit.”

“The state crew needed the truck cleared, Nana,” I say. “If the pressure had dropped while they were in the bog—”

“But it didn’t,” she interrupts. “Davis stopped by. Said he saw you down at the bakery. Said the girl was with Sophie.”