Page 76 of The Goat Next Door

“The clock and I aren’t on speaking terms, Marge,” I yell back, hauling a twenty-five-pound sack of flour over my shoulder.

I slice the paper sack with my small pocket knife and dump it into the hopper, my thoughts instantly sliding back to last night on the porch.

Every time I close my eyes, I feel the solid weight of Brooks’s hands, the friction of his stubble, and the absolute chaos of Kevin spilling forty-two dollars worth of French culture all over the planks.

My face burns just thinking about the way his mouth tasted—deep, hungry, and completely stripping away that serious, quiet wall he usually keeps between us.

“You’re dragging your feet on the scaling,” Marge says.

She walks over to my station, her rubber-soled shoes squeaking against the flour-dusted tile. She reaches into her apron pocket and pulls out a small, amber glass bottle of balm, setting it on the ledge next to my scale.

“Rub that into your knuckles. The yeast will draw every drop of moisture out of those city hands until they split right across the joints.”

I blink at the little jar, then up at her.

Her face is set in its default expression of skepticism, but she reaches out and shoves a stray curl behind my ear with a surprisingly gentle flick of her thumb.

“Go on. Don’t look at me like I’ve lost my mind. A baker with cracked fingers is useless.”

“Thank you, Marge,” I say. “I appreciate it.”

“Don’t get sappy,” she mutters, turning back to her bench. “Sappy dough doesn’t rise. Keep your head on the work.”

Marge never technically hired me in any official capacity.

There’s no schedule taped to the fridge. No proper onboarding process beyond her shoving an apron at my chest and grunting, “If you’re late, don’t bother coming.”

Mostly, she texts me at strange hours with messages that sound vaguely threatening.

5:02 AM — Need hands. Or: Can you work Thursday or do the goats need you again? Or sometimes just: 8 AM tomorrow.

At first, I thought the irregularity would bother me.

Back in Manhattan, every second of my life used to exist inside color-coded calendar blocks and fifteen-minute increments. Everything had structure. Meetings. Deadlines. Reservations made three weeks in advance.

Now, half the time I don’t know if I’m working until Marge sends me a text at four-thirty in the morning that simply says:

You awake, Ember?

And somehow, weirdly, I always am.

The bakery has become this strange, shifting thing in my life. Not quite a real job. Not charity either, despite Marge pretending she’s doing me a favor every time she lets me clock in beside her.

Some weeks I work one shift. Some weeks I work six days straight because tourist season rolls through Suncrest Hollow and everyone suddenly decides they need cinnamon rolls to survive.

Marge acts annoyed every single time I show up.

But she also started keeping oat milk for me in the fridge without mentioning it.

Which, from Marge, is basically an emotional support hug.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

By seven-thirty, the sun is breaking through the high windows in long, yellow bars, turning the flour dust into a golden haze.

The front bell gives a triple chime, and I slide through the counter gate just as Amy leans over the wooden half-door that separates the kitchen from the shop.

Her dark hair is woven into an intricate crown braid, her white linen blouse is crisp, and she’s holding a leather tote bag.