Page 77 of The Goat Next Door

“Tell me you have the raspberry danish,” she says. “The third-grade committee meeting is at eight, and if I don’t have sugar, I am going to lose my mind on the principal.”

“The danish has been secured,” I say, wiping my hands on my apron. I grab a wax-paper sheet and pull the largest, glossiest pastry from the rack, tucking it into a brown paper bag. “Complete with a dusting of sugar that matches my current stress levels.”

Amy takes the bag, inhaling the scent of butter with a theatrical sigh. She leans her elbows on the glass, her eyes narrowing as she looks at my hair, which is currently held back by a plastic claw clip in three different directions.

“You look like you’ve been handled by a small engine, Emmy. Is that actual dirt on your collar again?”

“It’s sourdough starter,” I say, leaning against the register. “But forget about the dirt. Did you see the monument this weekend?”

“The Chief?” Amy’s mouth twists into a smirk. She leans closer. “I saw the big truck parked down your lane during my grocery run. Don’t tell me he found another problem with your house.”

“The propane line was air-locked,” I whisper. “He brought Sophie. He used a very big wrench. And then he stood approximately four inches from my face and basically told me that I don’t belong in the valley because I’m a ‘financial anomaly’ from Manhattan.”

“Oh, he is so far gone,” Amy gasps, her hand flying to her collar. “He’s trying to scare you off because if you stay, he’s going to have to admit he’s a living, breathing person instead of just a town official. What else?”

“And… last night, we met up on the porch.”

Amy’s eyes widen. “No. Shut up. On the porch? In the open?”

“Yes! I was trying to make goat cheese, and he was sitting across the lane watching me. We started bickering, and then… things escalated. He pulled me right onto his lap.”

I bury my face in my hands, my voice a muffled wail. “Right there on the deck! Anyone could have driven down the lane. He was practically hyperventilating about people seeing us, but then he kissed me anyway, and it was… oh my God, Amy.”

“And?” Amy prods, slapping the counter. “Don’t leave me hanging at the good part!”

“And Kevin blew the entire operation!” I hiss, stepping back as Marge’s heavy tread echoes near the walk-in cooler. “He marched up the steps and knocked the bowl over. Three quarts of cheese, down the cracks of the deck. Brooks told me to get off his lap after that.”

Amy lets out a sharp gasp, clamping her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. “I am buying that goat a bag of premium oats. He is a master of timing. But listen to me—if Brooks is pulling you onto his lap on a porch where anyone could drive by, the man is losing his grip. He’s territorial.”

“He’s a walking hazard to my blood pressure,” I mutter.

“Keep up your work,” Amy winks, grabbing her bag and backing toward the door. “I want updates!”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

I’m standing behind the counter, wiping down the glass.

A loud crack echoes from the back storage room, followed by a wet, high-pressure spraying sound.

I drop the rag and jog through the swinging doors. The main supply line feeding the dish sink has split at the coupling. A steady, violent stream of rusty water is spraying straight across the room, hitting the dry-storage shelves.

“Marge!” I yell, lunging forward and grabbing an empty twenty-quart bucket, shoving it under the spray. The water hits the plastic with a roar, soaking the front of my white apron.

The office door flies open. Marge takes one look at the geyser, curses with a proficiency that makes my jaw drop, and marches to the wall phone.

“Lawson,” she says flatly. “The supply line behind the sink just blew. I’ve got water hitting the cake boxes and the city girl is currently trying to catch it with a soup bucket. Get over here with your torch. No, I don’t care if you just got off your shift. Move it.”

She slams the phone down and looks at me, hands on her hips. “Stand there and keep that bucket aligned, Ember. I’m going to the alley to see if I can force the main valve, but that thing hasn’t moved in twenty years.”

She disappears, leaving me alone in the narrow, echoing corridor.

Four minutes later, the screen door bangs open. Brooks steps into the kitchen, carrying his red plastic toolbox.

He isn’t wearing his uniform; he’s in a faded black t-shirt that clings to his chest, and his jeans are smudged with grease. He looks exhausted, but his jaw is set in that hard, unyielding line.

He stops dead, his gaze raking over the scene—the bucket, the spray, and the sight of me on my knees, dripping wet and frantic. His eyes lock onto mine, and the air in the narrow room shifts, turning heavy and charged with the immediate, raw memory of last night.

His gaze drags down to my mouth for a split second—a look that’s half-hunger, half-annoyance—before he forces his eyes up to the pipe.