Page 127 of The Goat Next Door

He hasn’t moved in twenty-two minutes.

He didn’t leave when I finished my tea, he didn’t leave when I washed the mug, and he didn’t leave when I went into the living room to sort through three months of utility bills just to see if he’d take the hint and walk out the door.

He’s still here.

I lean against the doorframe of the kitchen, watching him from the shadows of the hallway.

In my mind, I am absolutely howling. It is the most ridiculous, absurd, deeply masculine display of territorial stubbornness I have ever witnessed in my entire life.

He thinks if he just occupies the square footage, if he just remains structurally sound within my perimeter, he’s going to win the war by pure attrition.

You big, stupid, beautiful idiot, I think, my lips twitching with the absolute ghost of a smile before I flatten my face back into the cool, professional mask I’ve been wearing since Monday.

I step back into the light of the kitchen.

“The town council meeting started ten minutes ago, Chief,” I say, crossing my arms as I lean against the counter.

Brooks’s eyes snap up. “Davis has my proxy. They’re voting on a replacement line for Engine 2. He knows how to handle the selectmen.”

“And you’re just going to sit here? In my kitchen? Looking like a gargoyle?”

“I told you,” he says. “I’m not going back across the grass until we’ve talked.”

“There is no talking left, Brooks. The talking was done on Friday when you told me to go home.” I pick up my book from the counter and turn toward the stairs. “Lock the door when you realize your legs are cramping. I’m going to bed.”

⋆ ✦ ⋆

I’m standing behind the register at the bakery, my fingers dusted with powdered sugar, when the little bell above the door chimes with a loud, aggressive clatter. I look up, expecting to see old Mr. Henderson or one of the commuters from the ridge, but instead, I’m staring at Theo.

The young engineer is six-foot-two, weighs two hundred pounds of solid muscle, and looks currently like he’s about to vomit from sheer nerves.

He marches straight up to the counter, stops at the glass display case, and clears his throat so loudly it sounds like a small explosion.

“Good morning, Miss Ember,” he says, his voice cracking slightly on the Miss.

I tilt my head, resting my knuckles on the counter. “Good morning, Theo. Did the firehouse run out of coffee again, or is Engine 3 currently blocking my driveway?”

“No, ma’am. Egress is completely clear.”

Theo reaches into his breast pocket with a stiff, mechanical jerk and pulls out a small, neatly folded piece of white paper. He slides it across the glass toward me like he’s delivering a classified state document.

“The Chief instructed me to deliver the daily operations report.”

I look down at the paper. I don’t touch it.

“The daily operations report.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Theo nods once. “He stated that under Section 4 of the local neighborhood relations act, you are entitled to a full assessment of the shift’s status. He also told me to tell you that the alignment on the dumpster has been corrected by two and a half inches.”

A small, breathless sound escapes my throat before I can stop it. I press my lips together hard, my chest aching with the sudden, violent urge to laugh out loud.

“Did he really say ‘neighborhood relations act,’ Theo?”

“He did, ma’am. He wrote it down on the ledger.” Theo leans in slightly, his voice dropping into a desperate, hurried whisper. “Please just take the paper, Ember. He’s been making us polish the chrome on the undercarriage of the ladder truck since six o’clock this morning. We are begging you. Just read the note.”

I look at the young man’s terrified face, then down at the crisp white square. I slide my fingers over the glass, pulling the paper toward me.

“Thank you, Theo,” I say softly. “You can tell your Chief that the dumpster looks slightly better.”