Page 108 of The Goat Next Door

“You once told Mrs. Hargrove at the feed store her tomatoes looked ‘sensual.’”

“They did.”

“She’s seventy-three.”

“And thriving! Anyway, I’m going to lose my mind!” She thrusts the knife toward me. “Just eat it! But if you hate it, for the love of everything pretty and pink, lie to me. Tell me it’s the best thing you’ve ever had, even if it tastes like wet socks.”

I step closer.

The kitchen is small, and as I close the distance, she doesn’t back away. She stands her ground, though her breathing hitches.

I don’t take the knife from her. Instead, I lean down, my eyes locking onto hers, and I take the wedge from the blade with my teeth.

The cheese is incredible. Sharp, creamy, perfect. I swallow, letting the silence stretch just to watch her twitch.

“Well?” she asks, eyes narrowing as she waits for the verdict. “Am I a failure?”

“It’s perfect, Emmy,” I say, my voice dropping. “The cheese is perfect. But you? You still taste better.”

She blinks, the snarky comeback dying in her throat as she flushes a deep, beautiful crimson. I reach out, my thumb catching the small smear of curd, dragging it slow against her skin.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, hot neighbor,” she whispers, though she leans into the touch. She bats her eyelashes at me with such exaggerated innocence that I have to laugh. “Careful. You might lose your clothes.”

“Is that what we’re calling this? A game?” I murmur, my hand sliding to the back of her neck, fingers tangling in the loose strands of hair that escaped her bun.

“It’s a very specific game,” she purrs, a wicked light entering her eyes.

She drops the knife—it clatters onto the counter—and her hands slide down, her palms pressing against my belt buckle.

She tilts her head. “I was thinking about how much work you put into the floorboards, Brooks. And then I started thinking about how much work I could put into… other things. Like how I’d love to see if you’re as ‘controlled’ and ‘professional’ when I’m on my knees.”

My breath hitches. I let out a sharp, incredulous laugh, my hands tightening on her waist to steady myself. “You are absolutely shameless. Does your mother know you’re this much of a menace?”

“She’d be proud,” Ember says. “So, Chief… do you have any other pressing engagements, or are you going to stop staring at my mouth and actually do something about it?”

I step into her, trapping her between my body and the cold counter. I reach up, pulling the yellow pencil from her hair. The knot collapses, a cascade of blonde, messy curls spilling over her shoulders.

“You want me to stop staring?” I murmur, letting the pencil drop to the floor. It clatters, forgotten. “You’re inviting trouble into your kitchen.”

She runs her hands up my chest. “I like trouble. Trouble is at least interesting. Unlike the budget, which is what I assume you usually stare at.”

“The budget doesn’t look at me like you do,” I mutter.

“And how is that?” she whispers, her hands sliding up to my shoulders, pulling me down until my forehead rests against hers.

“Like you want to burn the whole county down,” I say.

“Maybe I do.”

She reaches up, her thumb tracing the line of my lower lip. Her skin is cool, but the trail she leaves behind is searing. “Maybe I want to see just how much of that iron-clad discipline I can melt before you snap.”

I groan, a low, frustrated sound, and I capture her mouth with mine. Her hands tangle in my hair, dragging me closer.

We’re a mess of limbs and fabric, of heavy breathing and muffled protests against each other’s lips.

She’s small, but she’s fierce, her body molded against mine with a frantic sort of energy that makes my blood boil.

I shift my grip, hoisting her up until she’s sitting on the edge of the counter, her legs wrapping around me, pulling me tight against her.