Page 33 of The Goat Next Door

The sharp, angry panic in his expression softens instantly, replaced by a deep, intense wave of concern that makes his forehead furrow.

“Jesus, Ember,” he says softly, stepping closer to the base of the steps, still holding Sophie tightly against his shoulder. “What the hell happened to you? Did the bakery explode?”

“The bakery did not explode,” I mutter, leaning my elbows on my knees and letting my head hang between my shoulders. “I completed my shift. I am an official flour bin technician. I am integrating into the local economy with maximum physical sacrifice.”

Brooks steps onto the first porch step, his heavy boot settling next to my leg. He sets Sophie down on the wood, keeping a firm, anchoring hand on her shoulder so she doesn’t wander off again.

He bends down, his form casting a long, protective shadow over my slumped body.

“You look like you ran a marathon through a flour mill,” he says, his voice losing its rough edge, his eyes scanning my face with a steady, searching intensity that makes the air on the porch feel entirely too warm.

“Are you actually okay? You’re pale.”

“I am spectacular,” I say, forcing a wide, sarcastic smile that hurts my dry face. “Never better. Just absorbing the local ambiance. Your daughter thinks I’m a ghost princess, Brooks. Honestly, it’s the best review I’ve gotten all day. The contractors on Main Street were significantly less complimentary of my brand.”

Sophie peeks from behind Brooks’s leg, her green eyes bright. “Daddy, can we give her a cookie? Remember, Miss Honey said neighbors like cookies.”

Brooks looks down at his daughter, then back up at me, his brow still furrowed.

“Yeah, bug,” Brooks says, his eyes locking onto mine with a steady, unreadable promise. “I think we can find a cookie for her. Come on, city girl. Let’s get you inside before you pass out right here.”

“I’m not passing out,” I mutter, though my eyelids are already betraying me. “I’m just taking a minute to admire the structural integrity of your gravel.”

8

Brooks

“1☆

The tall man refused to share his sandwich.

Unacceptable.”

— Goats on Yelp

“Right. Well, your structural analysis is over.” I reach down, grabbing her by the crook of her elbow, and give her a steady pull upward.

She groans as she finds her footing.

For a second, her knees turn to jelly, and she sways right into my personal space. Her shoulder hits my chest, light and soft.

That familiar bakery scent—yeast, vanilla, and fine, dusty flour—floods my senses. She catches her balance against the wood of the railing, her breath hitching.

I keep my hand on her arm a second too long, just making sure she’s really grounded, before I let go.

“Whoa,” she whispers. “The world just did a little spinny thing. Very retro.”

“Probably because you haven’t eaten anything but flour and sugar all day,” I say, stepping back just enough to clear my chest from her shoulder. I keep my eyes on her, watching her balance. “Where are your keys?”

“In my pocket,” she says, nodding toward her thigh. “The un-floured side.”

I reach into the deep pocket of her jumpsuit. My fingers brush the soft fabric, and then I find the cold metal ring. I pull the keys out quickly, unlock the front door, and push it open into the quiet, dim hallway of the old farmhouse.

I guide her into the kitchen and pull out one of the old wooden chairs. The room is dark, the yellow linoleum floor still half-stripped where we were working yesterday.

“Sit,” I order.

“I am sitting,” she says, letting her head drop back. “Look at me. I am the absolute picture of domestic compliance. You should take notes, Brooks.”