Page 40 of The Goat Next Door

“Okay!” she says, completely engrossed in a tower of wooden blocks. “Tell Daddy I want extra cheese!”

I walk back down the short hallway. When I step back into the kitchen, the room is warm, filled with the rich, savory scent of garlic sizzling in olive oil and the sharp, bright smell of crushed tomatoes.

Brooks is standing by the stove, his back to me.

His navy flannel shirt is stretched tight across his broad shoulders as he stirs the simmering sauce. He’s dropped his heavy work belt, and in the dim light of the kitchen overheads, he looks less like the fierce fire chief who handles local disasters and more like… a home.

I lean against the doorframe, my arms crossing over my chest, just watching him for a quiet moment.

“You know, for a guy who claims he doesn’t have a strategy, this smells suspiciously like a high-level culinary execution,” I say.

He turns his head, his eyes finding me in the doorway. He lowers the wooden spoon, setting it on a small ceramic dish, and leans his hip against the counter, mirroring my posture.

“I told you. I have food. It’s not complicated.”

“It’s very complicated,” I say, stepping into the room, my sneakers making no sound as I close the distance between us. I stop right in front of him, looking up into his face. “You rescued me. Again. I was supposed to be the one giving you dinner, and instead, I’m occupying your kitchen and eating your groceries.”

“The tomatoes are yours,” he points out, his voice dropping into that low, quiet register that makes my skin tingle.

“The tomatoes were covered in the history of American manufacturing, Brooks. You washed them.” I reach out, my fingers lightly catching the cuff of his rolled-up flannel sleeve. I tug on it, just a tiny, teasing pull. “Admission of defeat, Chief. I wanted to impress you. I wanted to show you I’m a useful asset to the neighborhood.”

Brooks looks down at my hand on his arm, then his gaze slides slowly up to my face, tracking over my nose, lingering on my red lipstick.

The air in the kitchen instantly changes, turning thick, heavy, and hot.

“You want to impress me, city girl?” he asks, his voice rough.

He takes one deliberate step forward, his large frame completely trapping me against the edge of the counter.

He reaches out, his hand wrapping around my waist, his thumb hooking into the side of my denim overalls. The pressure is firm, pulling me just an inch closer until I can feel the heat radiating off his chest.

“Is that what this is about?”

“Maybe,” I whisper. “Are you impressed, Chief?”

“You’re a headache,” he murmurs, his face dipping down, his breath warm against my cheek as his eyes drop to my mouth. “A massive, loud, unpredictable headache.”

“Oh and you love the headache,” I taunt, my fingers sliding up his arm to rest against the warm skin of his neck. I tilt my chin up, my lips just bare millimeters away from his. “Admit it.”

“I’m thinking about it,” he whispers.

He leans in, his eyes darkening with a heavy, deliberate intent that makes my knees go completely wobbly. I close my eyes, leaning into him, waiting for the slide of his lips against mine—

“Emmy! The castle fell down!”

Sophie’s loud, tragic shriek echoes from the hallway, followed by the clatter of a dozen wooden blocks hitting the floorboards.

Brooks stops dead. His forehead drops against mine for a brief, agonizing second, letting out a long, defeated breath that feels like a low groan.

I open my eyes, a small, breathless laugh escaping my lips as I look at his frustrated expression.

“Operational interruption, Chief,” I whisper. “The castle requires immediate engineering support.”

“Fucking hell,” he mutters, releasing his grip, and stepping back, though his hand lingers on my hip for a fraction of a second before it drops away completely.

He rubs the back of his neck, turning back toward the boiling pasta with a sharp shake of his head. “Go. Before she comes in here.”

“Duty calls,” I chirp, my voice instantly regaining its bubbly, teasing edge as I step away from the counter. I smooth down the front of my overalls, flashing him a bright, wicked grin. “I’ll be right back to supervise your stirring.”