Page 101 of The Goat Next Door

“You’re flexing on purpose now,” she accuses.

“I’m holding a drill.”

“You’re emotionally showing off.”

“That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is.” Her eyes flick back up to mine. “And it’s working.”

I step into her space, closer than I’ve ever allowed in the daylight. I reach out, my hand covering hers on the table, and I guide her hand lower. I press her palm against the rigid line of my abdomen, right above my jeans.

She gasps, her fingers curling into my skin, gripping.

“You like that?” I taunt. “You like being teased, city girl? I could have you bent over this table in five seconds, and we both know you wouldn’t lift a finger to stop me. You’d probably beg me to do it harder.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing,” she shoots back immediately. “You’ve been glaring at me like you want to throw me over your shoulder for weeks, Brooks. I was starting to think the fire chief handbook prohibited fun.”

I let out a laugh. “Trust me, sweetheart, there’s nothing professional about the thoughts I’m having right now.”

“Good,” she murmurs. “Because I’d be really disappointed if this was your version of self-control.”

My grip tightens instinctively. “Careful.”

“Or what?” she asks, tilting her head with that reckless little smile. “You’ll finally stop pretending you don’t enjoy this?”

I slide my hand down, right to the edge of the waistband of her overalls. I press my palm against the curve of her hip, kneading the soft, warm flesh, feeling her go slick and heavy against me.

I lean in, nipping at her neck, right where the pulse is jumping, making her arch her back into my hand.

“I could show you exactly how little control you actually have. I’d strip you bare, leave you trembling on this wood, and show you what happens when you play games with a man like me.”

“Brooks,” she pleads.

I pull back just enough to see her eyes, glassy, dilated, and blown-out. “That’s my name. But you’re going to have to do more than moan it if you want me to keep going.”

I let go of her, but I don’t walk away. I stay close, my chest brushing hers.

“Let’s just get the table steady so we can stop rocking every time someone leans on it. You hold the level. I do the work. And if you touch me again—if you even try to goad me—I’m going to make you regret it.”

She smirks, the spark of mischief returning to her eyes. “You wouldn’t. You’re too obsessed with perfection to walk away now. Besides, who else would you have to yell at in the mornings?”

“Try me.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

“You’re holding that wrong,” she says, pointing at the drill.

“I’ve been doing this for fifteen years, Ember. I think I know how to hold a drill,” I fire back, a grin tugging at my mouth despite myself.

“Clearly not, given how much you’re struggling with this one board.”

“I’m not struggling. I’m being precise. Something you wouldn’t understand with your ‘everything is a movie scene’ approach to life.”

She laughs. “Hey, if I lived my life like a boring safety manual, I’d be miserable. You love the drama. You just hate that you love it.”

“I don’t love the drama. I love order,” I say, though I can’t help but look at her, at the way her eyes dance.

At one point, she drops a screwdriver near my feet. When she leans down to get it, one of her bikini straps slides down her arm. She lingers there a second too long, her eyes looking up at me through her lashes, daring me to look.