Page 25 of The Goat Next Door

For the next thirty minutes, we bicker through the installation.

She complains that my impact driver is too loud; I tell her she’s holding the bracket upside down. She tells me my technique is “visually uninspired”; I tell her her technique is going to result in a structural collapse.

By three in the afternoon, the kitchen floor is reinforced, the sink plumbing is temporarily clamped, and we’re sitting on her front porch steps, sharing the cinnamon roll she brought back from Marge’s.

“Tuesday morning,” she says, licking her fingers. “6 AM sharp. Marge told me if I’m a minute late, she’s locking me out. I think she secretly loves me, handsome.”

“Marge doesn’t love anyone under the age of sixty,” I say, taking the cup of coffee she hands me. “But she respects grit.”

“I’ve made a decision,” Ember announces not even a second later, leaning back against the porch railing.

“That sentence has never ended well.”

“It will this time.” She points a finger at me. “I’m going to make goat cheese.”

I stop mid-swallow. I slowly lower the coffee mug to my knee and look at her. “You bought the goats like a week ago.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve never made cheese.”

“Not technically, no.”

“You watched two videos on the internet and read half an article while you were waiting for the caulk to dry, didn’t you?”

“I read most of an article, thank you very much,” she says, tossing her head so her curls dance. “And I took notes. On a napkin.”

I let out a low grunt, rubbing the back of my neck where the skin is hot from the sun. “Ember.”

“Brooks.”

“You can’t just wake up and decide to become an artisanal cheesemaker because you have a goat named Kevin.”

She gasps dramatically. “Tell that to the pioneers.”

“The pioneers probably knew what they were doing.”

“The pioneers absolutely did not know what they were doing,” she counters instantly, leaning forward. “That’s why half of history is just a series of well-documented disasters. It’s about the spirit of adventure.”

“You’re going to poison somebody,” I say flatly. “Probably me.”

“I am not.”

“You’re going to create a biological weapon.”

“Rude.”

“You’re going to accidentally invent a new, aggressive life form in a mason jar.”

“Even ruder.”

She slides a little closer to me on the wooden step, her hip brushing my uniform pants. “I’ll have you know that in six months, people will be driving from three counties over to taste my goat cheese. It’s going to be a culinary awakening.”

I snort. “In six months, I’ll be driving you to the county hospital after you try to pasteurize dairy with a hair dryer.”

“Your utter lack of faith is honestly heartbreaking, hot neighbor.”

“My faith died when I watched you try to use a power drill backwards on a drywall anchor.”