Page 66 of The Goat Next Door

She’s finally realized what’s happening, her mouth doing that little O-shape as she looks between the grandmas and me.

“You’re driving her home,” Bernice dictates, her tone leaving exactly zero room for debate. “You don’t want the city girl to drown in the hollow on Remembrance week, do you?”

“I can drive, Bernice,” Emmy calls out, stepping toward the stairs. “I have a very robust understanding of hydroplaning dynamics. I watched a public service announcement once.”

“Shut up, Ember,” Bernice says without looking back.

She cuts her eyes back to me, her gaze drilling straight into my forehead. “Take her home, Brooks. It’s on your way to the ridge check anyway. Don’t be a stubborn bastard like Tommy was.”

Mentioning Tommy is cheating, and Bernice knows it.

I let out a long, defeated breath, shifting the heavy canvas bag on my shoulder. “Fine. Get your coat, city girl. The truck’s idling.”

The walk from the basement door to the passenger side of the utility truck is a three-second sprint through a literal wall of water.

I throw the door open for her, and she lunges into the cab, her boots skidding on the rubber floor mat as she tumbles into the high bucket seat. I slam the door, sprint around the hood through the blinding downpour, and haul myself into the driver’s seat, pulling the heavy door shut against the gale.

The cab is loud with the sound of the rain drum-rolling against the reinforced aluminum roof.

“Jesus,” Emmy gasps, shaking her head like a wet retriever. She sends a small, silver spray of water across my dashboard, her gold curls flying wild around her face. “That isn’t a storm. That’s a biblical event. I think I just saw Kevin trying to build an ark by the tool shed.”

I grab a clean, dry shop rag from the center console and shove it into her hands, my hands gripping the steering wheel a little too tight. “I told you to stay home, Emmy. The valley doesn’t do summer storms halfway.”

“Oh, please, Chief,” she says, wiping the water from her forehead. “Bernice issued a formal summons. You don’t say no to a woman who wears a loon on her chest. It’s a matter of survival. Besides, I know you were secretly praying for an excuse to rescue me again. It’s your favorite hobby.”

I shift the truck into drive, the heavy-duty transmission letting out a low clunk as I pull out of the church lot. The windshield wipers are on max speed, slapping back and forth in a frantic rhythm, the heavy headlights cutting through the gray wall of water in two long, yellow beams.

“So,” I say. “Penelope Wild?”

Emmy lets out a low, musical laugh, leaning her head back against the vinyl headrest. She looks over at me, her eyes flashing with pure, unadulterated mischief in the green glow of the dashboard lights.

“Are you familiar with her oeuvre, Chief? Did Lauren leave a copy of The Viking’s Captive Heart behind? I can get you an autographed copy. It has a lot of very detailed information about structural integrity. Mostly of bodices.”

“I don’t read paperbacks with long-haired guys on the cover,” I say, my voice dropping into a flat, steady register. “But Hazel looked like she was about to faint into her taco dip.”

“My parents write under that name, Brooks. It’s a highly lucrative corporate partnership,” Emmy says smoothly, shifting her legs in the seat. “They understand the exact narrative architecture required to make a serious, brooding man lose his mind. Frankly, I think they’d find you a very compelling subject study. The Solitary Chief. A man of few words, tight trousers, and too many municipal regulations. They’d probably call it The Captain’s Cold Command.”

A sudden, sharp heat hits my chest.

I cut my eyes sideways at her for a split second, taking in the curve of her throat, the damp fabric of her sweater clinging to her shoulder, and the way she’s looking at me—like she knows exactly what she’s doing to my pulse rate.

“You’re pushing your luck, city girl,” I mutter, turning the truck down the narrow, unpaved lane that leads to the Gilded Goat. The tires sink into the deep mud, the truck swaying slightly as the four-wheel drive locks in, the heavy suspension absorbing the potholes.

“Oh, am I?” She slides an inch closer across the bench seat, her shoulder almost brushing mine. “I’m just observing how protective you are, hot neighbor. What’s the matter, Brooks? Does the kilt conversation make you nervous, or is it just the word ravished?”

Fucking hell.

My grip on the steering wheel tightens until my knuckles turn white.

“I’m protective because it’s my job to make sure the body count doesn’t go up on my shift,” I say, my voice coming out rougher and harder than I intended. “Your driveway is washed out. Look at that.”

I hit the spotlight on the side mirror, throwing a blinding, white beam across her front yard.

The driveway has turned into a shallow, brown river, the water carrying bits of gravel and old cedar bark down toward the barn.

I nose the massive truck right up to her front porch steps, the bumper practically touching the rotted wood.

“Well,” Emmy says, the playful, teasing energy dropping away as she looks at the dark porch. She turns back to me, her eyes suddenly very serious in the dim cab light. “Thank you for the transportation, Brooks. And for… not letting me drown in the church parking lot.”