Page 100 of The Goat Next Door

“I didn’t say that.”

“You implied it.”

“I implied you dress like you’re trying to start incidents.”

“And yet,” she says sweetly, stepping even closer, “you still came over here at sunrise.”

“Against my better judgment.”

She smirks, that slow, dangerous, teasing curve of her lips. She steps closer, the space between us shrinking until I can feel the radiating heat coming off her.

“It’s a heatwave, Brooks,” she says. “A girl has to dress for the weather. Besides, you didn’t seem to mind the lack of fabric when you were here last time. You were actually a pretty big fan, if I remember correctly.”

I let out a low breath, stepping into her personal space until I’m towering over her. The kitchen suddenly feels very, very small.

I lean down, my mouth a fraction of an inch from the shell of her ear.

“If you keep running that loud, defiant mouth, I’m going to remind you exactly how you taste. Sweeter than sugar, Emmy. You want to see if you can handle that kind of intensity, or are you just going to keep playing the brat until I lose my patience?”

She gasps, a sharp, delighted sound, her cheeks flushing a vivid, beautiful crimson.

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she whispers. “Because you sound like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me.”

“Get back. If I’m doing this, I need room to work, not a distraction.”

The kitchen is stifling. The air is thick with the smell of old pine and the sweet, dizzying scent of her perfume.

I work for a while, sweat soaking through my shirt, sticking to my back and chest. I pull at the collar, trying to get some air, but it’s no use.

I look at Ember, who is watching me with heavy-lidded, hungry eyes, her gaze tracing the muscles in my arms every time I swing the hammer.

“You look like you’re about to overheat, Brooks,” she murmurs, her voice a low, teasing hum. “Maybe you should take that off. It’s just us. Unless you’re worried you’ll lose your professional composure?”

I look at her, really look at her, and the fire in my gut turns into a raging inferno.

“It is hot,” I mutter, my voice gruff. “But don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

I reach up and grab the hem of my shirt, pulling it over my head in one fluid motion. I toss it onto a chair and stand there, bare-chested, the muscles in my back and shoulders coiled tight.

She stares, her throat working as she swallows hard. The teasing vanishes, replaced by something much hungrier and darker.

“Well,” she says, her voice a little breathless, “that certainly helps the airflow.”

“You were absolutely trying to get me to do that,” I say.

Ember blinks innocently. “Do what?”

“Take my shirt off.”

“Brooks.” She places a hand against her chest like she’s offended. “I would never manipulate you.”

“You stared at me for ten minutes straight.”

“You have very distracting shoulders.”

I laugh under my breath despite myself.

Then her eyes drift lower again. This time she doesn’t even pretend to hide it.