Page 143 of The Goat Next Door

“Move it, livestock,” Marge says, pointing a long, sharp finger at Kevin, who immediately trots out the screen door like he’s been caught by the principal.

Marge turns her formidable gaze onto me, her hands resting on her hips, her eyes tracking the flour on my nose. “Ember, why are you still in your overalls?”

“I was helping the goats with their morning rotation, Marge,” I say, stepping forward to give her a quick, tight hug around her middle.

She sighs, pretending to hate it, but her warm hand comes up to pat my back with that familiar, fierce maternal strength she’s given me ever since my own parents started spending six months a year in a villa in Tuscany researching ‘Renaissance-era bodices.’

“You’re a mess,” Marge declares, pulling back to straighten the collar of my flannel shirt with a rough, loving jerk. “Now go out there and tell that big fireman of yours to stop staring at the pink castle like that. It’s a birthday party, not a chemical fire.”

“Yes, Marge,” I grin, unbuckling my other overall strap just to watch her jaw tighten.

I grab the tray of juice boxes and push my way through the door, the heat hitting my face instantly.

As I cross the lawn, the high-heeled click of the church knitting brigade echoes from the driveway. Bernice, Hazel, and Dotty are marching in a tight formation past Brooks’s truck.

Bernice is holding a slow cooker like a shield, Hazel has a box of handmade knitted goat sweaters (a sentence I never thought I’d have to process), and Dotty is using her cane to prod my father, who has wandered out to the porch to describe a “particularly moist velvet drapes sequence” to her.

Mark is standing right next to him, looking deeply fascinated and taking mental notes for his camper van renovations.

“Brooks Lawson!” Bernice shouts across the grass. “Why is that castle still looking like a melted piece of saltwater taffy? Six years ago today, I held your daughter in the hospital while you were crying like a baby into a paper towel. The least you can do is give her a proper bouncy castle!”

Brooks looks up from the grass. He looks at Bernice, then he looks at Sophie, and then his dark eyes slide across the lawn until they find me.

The tight line of his shoulders drops an inch. The corners of his mouth loosen, and this slow, heavy, completely private look takes over his face.

I walk up to the upside-down bucket, setting the juice boxes down, and lean my hip against his shoulder. “Having some structural difficulties, Chief?”

Brooks lets out a long sigh, his hand coming up to wrap firmly around the back of my thigh, his thumb tracing a slow circle through the denim. “The manual is written in three languages, none of them English, and our daughter is currently threatening to mutiny.”

“She gets her adherence to regulatory perfection entirely from your side of the grass, pretty boy,” I remind him. “I am a creature of artistic chaos. If she were my biological clone, that castle would be inflated with pure enthusiasm and held together by hot glue.”

“It needs the silver tape, Ember,” Sophie insists. “Daddy says the silver tape doesn’t meet the safety standards for a bouncy environment, but I told him that the pink environment is different.”

“The pink environment is completely different,” I agree, leaning down to press a loud, sloppy kiss against her cheek, making her giggle and swat at my curls. “Go find Lauren and Mark, Soph. They just brought in a huge cake. Go make sure Mark doesn’t eat the frosting.”

“Copy that!” Sophie shouts, jumping off the bucket and sprinting toward the kitchen door, her little boots kicking up small clumps of clover.

Brooks stays on his knees for a second, looking up at me through his eyelashes. He reaches up, his fingers twisting into the belt loop of my overalls, pulling me down until I have to crouch in the grass right between his knees.

“You smell sweet,” he whispers, his voice dropping into that low, hot register that makes the entire summer afternoon disappear. “And you have flour on your left ear.”

“It’s called branding, Brooks,” I whisper back. “I am a walking advertisement for cupcakes. And you look like you’ve been hazed by a bouncy castle.”

“I’m losing control of the perimeter, Ember,” he murmurs, his eyes sliding down to my mouth. “Your mother is currently explaining the mechanics of historical intimacy to the junior engineer, your father is trying to get Mark to test out the suspension on his camper van for a scene about a runaway carriage, and Lauren just told me my hair looks thin.”

“Is it thin?”

“It’s not thin,” he says, his hand sliding up to the back of my neck.

He pulls me in, his lips hitting mine with a slow, deep, completely unhurried certainty that tastes like black coffee and summer heat.

“Get a room, you two!” Marge yells from the porch, banging a large wooden spoon against the railing. “There are children present!”

Brooks breaks the kiss with a short laugh, his forehead resting against mine for a brief second before he stands up, lifting me with him like I weigh nothing at all. He wipes the mud off his knees, his eyes crinkling at the corners.

“Mark is being cornered by your parents,” Brooks says. “We should probably save him.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” I say. “You haven’t even cleared the bouncy castle scene yet. You’re still on duty.”

Across the lawn, the screen door flies open again.

Sophie comes running out, holding a massive piece of pink cardboard, followed closely by Kevin the goat, who is now wearing a bright green knitted sweater with tiny yellow buttons down the front—compliments of Hazel.

Behind them, my mother is waving her laptop like a flag, my father and Mark are laughing together on the porch, and Lauren is holding a digital camera, her shoulders shaking with silent laughter.

Amy drifts out from the side of the house, her camera lens clicking as she captures a candid shot of the chaos, her expression softening into a quiet, knowing smile as she watches us.

“Ember! Look!” Sophie screams, pointing at Kevin. “He’s a gentleman now!”

I look at the goat, I look at the fire chief holding my hand like it’s the only stable thing in the universe, and I look at the small, crazy town that has somehow become my home.

“He’s a perfect gentleman, Soph,” I laugh, leaning my head against Brooks’s shoulder as the first guests start to flood the lawn. “Just like your dad.”