Page 139 of The Goat Next Door

“She did,” I confirm. “She told me she didn’t want our daughter growing up with a lonely, stubborn father because I’m too terrified of my own shadow. She said if I didn’t walk across the grass and apologize to her new best friend, she was going to drive over here herself and hit me with a wrench.”

Ember is fully grinning now, her eyes sparkling with that bright, wicked mischief I’ve grown to crave. “I love her. I’m going to send her a loaf of sourdough. We can form a club to keep you in line.”

“The club is already fully formed, clearly,” I say, leaning down to press my forehead against hers, the clean, familiar tang of her jasmine perfume filling my lungs.

“She really said best friend?” Ember asks after a second, her breath hitching on a laugh.

“Direct quote.”

“Oh my God, I knew we connected.”

I drop my head back into the pillow, staring at the ceiling. “At one point she called me emotionally constipated.”

Ember fully snorts at that, burying her face in the pillow to muffle the sound.

I point a finger at her. “Don’t encourage this.”

“She’s right though.”

I stare at her, feigning shock.

The traitor just shrugs against the mattress. “You did emotionally repress yourself onto a public bench for a week.”

“That sentence sounds fake.”

“And yet.”

I groan and drag a hand down my face while she laughs harder.

Honestly, hearing her laugh in bed next to me might be the thing that permanently alters my brain chemistry.

“But I told her the truth,” I continue, my tone turning earnest again. “I told her I’m staying. I want to tell Sophie today that we’re a team now.”

Ember looks at me for a long, silent beat, her hand coming up to rest against the back of my neck.

“Okay,” she whispers against my lips. “Now get up. The goats are demanding attention, and you look like you know how to haul a fifty-pound sack of grain.”

I don’t move right away, content to simply exist in the space she’s created.

Ember narrows her eyes. “Brooks.”

“What?”

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m comfortable.”

She rolls her eyes, a playful glint in her gaze, and tries to shove my shoulder with her palm. It does absolutely nothing.

“You are unbelievably heavy,” she complains.

“Occupational hazard.”

“You’re literally a human oak tree.”

I grin down at her, leaning over so our noses are nearly touching. “You seemed pretty happy about that last night.”

Her entire face goes a deep, brilliant shade of pink instantly.