Page 24 of The Goat Next Door

I don’t do the work for her.

I try to, multiple times, because my internal clock is ticking and my brain is hardwired to just complete the task efficiently, but every time I reach for a tool, she physically shoves her shoulder into my ribs to nudge me out of the way.

“Get back, Cowboy,” she says, wrestling with my heavy crowbar as we try to pry up a water-damaged section of pine flooring near the kitchen sink. “You said you were teaching me. Tell me what to do.”

“Keep your hands lower on the shaft,” I say, stepping up behind her. I wrap my gloved hands over hers, guiding her grip down the cold iron bar.

She’s warm, her back nearly pressed against my chest, and that cinnamon-and-sugar scent from the bakery is completely overriding the smell of damp rot beneath the sink.

“Square your feet. Don’t pull with your arms. Lean your body weight into it. Let the tool do the heavy lifting.”

She shifts her weight, her hip brushing against my thigh, and gives a sharp downward push. The ancient nail lets out a screeching, rusty protest as the rotted plank pops cleanly out of the subfloor.

“Ha!” she shouts, spinning around in my space, her face inches from mine, her golden curls tumbling out of her bun. “Take that, Marcus!”

“Who the hell is Marcus?”

“My ex-boss,” she says carelessly, tossing the crowbar onto the floor with a loud clatter. “A man who wears glasses without lenses and once spent three hours explaining to me why a logo for a luxury kombucha brand needed to represent ‘the existential dread of the modern consumer.’ He told me I was just a conceptualist. He said I couldn’t handle the actual execution of a physical structure.”

“Your ex-boss sounds like an idiot,” I say, bending down to examine the exposed joists below.

“Thank you,” she says solemnly. “That is the kindest thing anyone has ever said to me during manual labor.”

“But he wasn’t entirely wrong about your execution. The joist underneath this sink is split. If you had filled that five-gallon water jug and set it here, you would have ended up in the cellar.”

“Well, I didn’t,” she says, leaning over my shoulder. “Because you’re here. My guardian angel. My incredibly grumpy, highly practical savior.”

“I’m your neighbor,” I correct. “And tomorrow, I’m billing you for a new mailbox. Speaking of which, how exactly do you plan on paying for a twenty-five-acre farm and twelve purebred dairy goats when you’re currently volunteering to scrub flour bins? I know this place cost a fortune, Ember.”

Ember hops up, sitting on the edge of the old laminate counter, her legs swinging back and forth. She pulls off the oversized leather gloves and drops them into her lap, a small, secretive smile playing on her red lips.

“I won the lottery,” she says casually.

I stop clearing the wood shavings. I straighten my spine, locking my knees, and look up at her. “You what?”

“The Powerball,” she says. “It was a Tuesday. I went down to the bodega to buy a diet soda and a pack of sour gummy worms, and I had two dollars left over. So I let the machine pick the numbers. And then… boom. Confetti. A very big check with a lot of commas. Twelve million! It turns out, when you win that much money, people expect you to do things like buy a vineyard in Tuscany or invest in a tech startup that manufactures smart water bottles. But I didn’t want Tuscany. I wanted to build something real. With goats. Like Kevis out there.”

I blink, catching the name. “Wait. Huh? Who is Kevis?”

“My goat,” she says, pointing out the kitchen window. “That guy told me his name is Kevis. It’s an unusual, elegant name. Very Euro-chic.”

I look out the window at the goat, then look back at Ember’s entirely sincere, proud face. A wave of intense amusement hits my chest, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek so hard I nearly taste copper to keep from laughing out loud.

“Ember,” I say, my voice straining under the pressure of containing my laughter. “That was probably Arthur and he was messing with you. That goat’s name is Kevin. He’s just a regular goat named Kevin.”

Ember’s jaw drops. Her eyes go completely round. “What? No. He distinctly said Kevis. With an S!”

“Arthur has a heavy lisp and a missing front tooth,” I say, the grin finally breaking through my defenses. “And he’s a notorious prankster. He told the city people who bought the parcel down the road that the local deer required a crossing permit. You bought a goat named Kevin, Ember.”

“Kevin?!” she gasps, horrified, looking out the window at the animal. “That is a human accountant’s name! He doesn’t look like a Kevin! He looks like a majestic, mystical creature of the valley!”

“He looks like he’s eating a piece of your U-Haul box,” I point out.

“Oh, shut up, hot neighbor,” she groans, covering her face with her hands, though her shoulders are shaking with a laugh of her own. “My life is a joke. A literal, cosmic joke.”

“It’s an entertaining one,” I say, reaching into my tool bag to pull out a heavy iron sister-plate and some heavy-duty lag screws. “Come here. Hold this bracket against the timber while I drive the screws in. Don’t drop it on your toes.”

She slides off the counter instantly, dropping to her knees on the floorboards beside me.