Page 97 of The Goat Next Door

“Evening,” I call back, adjusting my grip on the bread.

“Need help carrying those?”

“It’s one loaf of bread, Mr. Jenkins.”

“Still.”

I laugh, a genuine sound that lightens the heavy tension in my chest. “I’m good.”

“You tell that fire chief I said hello,” he adds, his voice gravelly and deceptively casual.

I nearly trip over my own feet, the bag shifting precariously. Mr. Jenkins doesn’t even blink. He just keeps rocking, his eyes fixed on the horizon as if he hasn’t just dropped a grenade into my afternoon.

The entire town is impossible. They’re all watching. They’re all guessing.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

I’m sitting on the steps with a mug of tea, watching the clouds break over the ridge, when my phone buzzes against the wood.

I pick it up, my heart doing a joyful, frantic leap. “Hi!”

“Darling!” My mother’s voice is a symphony of dramatic, breathless energy. “We are in the terminal in Albany. We have rented an SUV, and we shall be arriving by dinner time tomorrow!”

“You’re coming here?” I squeak.

“We decided that your descriptions of the ‘rustic, soulful, and structurally challenged’ farmhouse were a cry for help,” my father says, his voice booming in the background. “We’ve brought gin and a plot outline for the new series that requires someone with a background in local forestry to tell me if a man can realistically get his foot stuck in a bear trap in the middle of a glade.”

“Oh my god,” I say.

Part of me knows they’ll love this place. But I also know them. They’re Erotica royalty—they live for atmosphere, for tension, for the theatre of life.

I don’t just want them to see a house; I want them to see the life I’ve carved out here. I want them to see that I didn’t just run away—I built something.

“I’m so excited!” I say, my brain pivoting to the house. The kitchen table has a wobble I’ve been ignoring for weeks. The fence—the one Brooks just fixed—still has a stray piece of wire hanging off the corner. “I just—I need to prepare!”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” my mom laughs. “We want the authentic experience. We want to see the man you’ve been writing about in your frantic, cryptic texts.”

“He’s not a character, Mom!” I laugh, but my pulse is racing.

When I hang up, I don’t think. I just jump up and sprint across the property line, toward the house next door. I reach his porch, my heart hammering against my ribs, and I hammer my fist against his door.

The door swings open.

And there he is.

Brooks Lawson. Fire Chief. Town hero.

Destroyer of my ability to think like a functioning adult.

He’s fresh out of the shower, his dark hair damp and messy, a towel hanging low around his hips. He’s wearing a t-shirt that clings to his damp skin, and he’s holding a half-finished cup of coffee.

He looks at me, eyes widening. “Ember? What’s wrong?”

“My parents are coming!” I blurt out. “They’re arriving tomorrow! They’re novelists, Brooks. They’re dramatic, they’re chaotic, and they’re my biggest supporters, but they’re also going to walk in and write a critique of my entire existence if the table isn’t level!”

Brooks stares at me, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. He doesn’t move, anchored by his sheer confusion. “Your parents. Here. Tomorrow.”

“Yes, keep up! And I have no idea how to make a farmhouse look like a ‘rustic chic retreat’ in twenty-four hours! I need your tools. I need your, I don’t know, your structural expertise. You’re the only person I know who owns a level that’s longer than six inches!”