Page 129 of The Goat Next Door

“I’m fine,” I say, handing him the white bag. “Marge says these are yesterday’s fritters. She also says you’re a hazard to her retail environment.”

Brooks takes the bag, his fingers brushing against mine for a fraction of a second. “Tell Marge I’ll buy the whole tray tomorrow if it keeps the bench clear.”

I lean my hip against the green wooden railing of the porch, looking up at him through my curls.

“Theo looks like he’s about to have a heart attack every time he comes into the shop, Brooks,” I say. “You can’t keep using your engineers as an emotional delivery service. It’s bad for morale.”

“Morale is fine,” he says. “They’re learning the value of discipline. And they like you better than they like me anyway.”

“Everyone likes me better than they like you, Brooks. That’s not a high bar.”

A real, genuine smile spreads across his lips—not the stiff, official face he wears for the town, but the loose, heavy look that makes his eyes crinkle at the corners.

“I know. Sophie reminds me constantly,” he says. “But I’m working on it.”

I look at him for a long moment, letting the silence hang between us in the cold air.

“Tomorrow night,” I say, turning back toward the bakery door. “The grandmas are making a massive spread of pot roast and mashed potatoes in the church basement after the knitting circle. I decided to invite the entire firehouse crew because Davis looked malnourished on Monday. If you bring your yellow pad, Bernice might let you have a bowl.”

Brooks’s whole body seems to release a breath he’s been holding since Monday. His shoulders drop an inch, his jaw relaxing as he looks at me.

“I’ll bring two pads,” he says.

“Just one, Chief. Don’t make it weird.”

The bell chimes as I step back inside, the warmth of the sugar and coffee swallowing me whole, but through the glass, I see him take an apple fritter out of the bag and bite into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

By the next night, the rain has returned, but it’s a soft, lazy drizzle that makes the valley look like an old oil painting.

The church basement is loud, thick with the smell of slow-cooked onions. The knitting circle has expanded into a full-blown community feast, with three long trestle tables set up near the back kitchen.

Half the volunteer crew from the station is there, sitting with their wives and kids, their deep voices filling the concrete room with a comfortable, familiar rumble.

I’m sitting at the end of the center table, wearing my favorite yellow cardigan, helping Sophie navigate a plate of pot roast that’s entirely too large for her lap.

“Look, Ember!” she chirps. “I drew the ladder truck, but I made the wheels out of the sparkly silver paper. Daddy said silver wheels are against the vehicle code, but I told him that silver makes it go faster.”

I laugh, leaning over to press my nose against her temple. “Silver absolutely makes it go faster, Soph. Your dad doesn’t understand aerodynamic style.”

“He doesn’t understand anything about style,” a deep, rough voice says from behind my shoulder.

Brooks steps around the bench, holding two thick mugs of coffee.

He slides into the bench right next to me, uninvited but entirely deliberate, setting one of the mugs down near my elbow.

Before he can even open his mouth to speak, a shadow falls over our end of the table.

I look up.

Standing in a tight, formidable phalanx are Bernice, Hazel, and Dotty.

Bernice is holding a large metal ladle like a defensive weapon, Hazel has her arms crossed over a flour-dusted apron, and Dotty is gripping her cane with both hands, staring down at Brooks with an expression that could peel paint off a wall.

They are clearly staging a rescue mission.

“Brooks,” Bernice barks, her voice cutting clean through the basement chatter until a couple of the nearby firefighters quiet down to watch. “What do you think you’re doing sitting next to this girl?”