Page 103 of The Goat Next Door

“Competence is the most commonly misread form of seduction.”

— Anonymous Survey

The screen door slams, that final, rhythmic thwack echoing through the humid afternoon like a period at the end of an argument I definitely didn’t win.

I’m still standing by the counter, pinned there, my heart doing a frantic, traitorous drum solo against my ribs.

Good job, Emmy.

You really sold the ‘I’m an independent woman who doesn’t need a man to fix her life’ vibe. Except you’re currently panting like a golden retriever who just spotted a tennis ball.

I want to punch him.

I want to march across the property line, track him down in his office, and sock him in the jaw for the way he looked at me—that infuriating, bossy, protective smirk that makes my knees feel like they’ve been replaced by jelly.

I want to shatter his “Fire Chief” composure until he’s as messy and undone as I feel right now.

If I punched him, would he just stare at me with those intense eyes and ask if I’m done yet? Because that would be the most annoying, turn-on-est thing ever.

I’d probably just start apologizing while he’s still mid-glower.

But God, I also want to lick him.

My brain is officially broken.

I’m thinking about licking a man who spends his weekends hauling timber.

I need a therapist. Or a very big bucket of ice water. Actually, maybe just a damp towel. A very cold one.

I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to fuck someone more.

My pulse is still thumping in my throat where his finger traced my skin, and the memory of his mouth from last night makes me want to scream into a pillow.

“Such a total, monumental, frustratingly hot jerk,” I hiss at the empty air, grabbing a dish towel and wiping my face as if I could scrub the lingering electricity off my skin.

I pace the kitchen, my sneakers thudding against the floorboards he just tightened. They feel solid. Everything feels solid. And that’s the problem. He made my life functional, even while he was busy tearing my nerves to shreds.

I’m still spiraling when a deep, rumbling engine cuts through the valley silence. I freeze. It’s barely late afternoon—they weren’t supposed to be here for hours.

The car door clinks, and then, a voice that could cut through a hurricane with its sheer, dramatic volume tears through the trees.

“Emmy! If this is the place, I am going to faint! It’s positively, delightfully, devastatingly rustic!”

I dash to the porch, my overalls unbuttoned and my hair a chaotic bird’s nest of pins and frizz. “What—? You’re here? It’s not even dinner time!”

My parents are standing at the edge of the goat pasture, looking like they’ve just stepped off a yacht in the Mediterranean instead of a rental SUV in rural nowhere.

My father, Julian, is wearing a linen suit that is entirely too crisp for the humidity, trying to shield his eyes with a silk handkerchief. My mother, Clara, draped in a scarf that’s blowing in the wind like a theatrical prop, is holding a massive bottle of gin in one hand and a suitcase in the other.

“Mom! Dad!” I shriek, sprinting across the grass, my brain struggling to catch up to the change in plans. “Why are you so early? I’m a mess!”

My mother drops the suitcase and launches herself at me. “Darling! Oh, look at you! You look like a bohemian goat empress! You’re covered in dust! It’s so authentic! I’m going to frame this moment!”

“I’m a disaster,” I laugh, burying my face in her shoulder.

It’s impossible to be stressed when they’re around.

“Nonsense,” my father booms, clapping me on the shoulder before pivoting to look at the goat barn. “Ember, darling, we saw the barn! Is it true? Did you paint it that shade of… what is it, neon fuchsia?”