Page 67 of The Goat Next Door

“Don’t worry about it,” I say, keeping my eyes fixed on the windshield, determined not to look at her lips again. “Go inside. Lock the door. If the power goes out, the generator by the tool shed has a full tank of diesel. Just flip the throw-switch on the wall.”

“Yes, Chief,” she says softly.

She unbuckles her seatbelt, but instead of opening the door, she shifts her weight across the bench seat.

Before I can register the movement, she bridges the gap between us completely.

She catches my jaw with her hand, her fingers warm and surprisingly firm against my stubble.

I freeze, my breath catching in my throat as she tilts my face toward hers.

“Thank you for being so protective, hot neighbor,” she whispers.

And then she presses her lips directly to mine.

Her mouth is soft, parting slightly as she tastes the salt on my skin, her thumb tracing the line of my jaw with a slow, agonizing pressure.

Her lipstick smears against my mouth, hot and slick, and for a terrifying second, my brain completely short-circuits.

My left hand leaves the steering wheel, my fingers locking onto her hip, pulling her an inch closer into the console.

She lets out a soft, shaky breath against my lips, her grip tightening on my jaw, giving me one last, wicked little slide of her mouth before she pulls back just out of reach.

Her chest is heaving, her eyes wide and dark in the green dashboard light, her lipstick slightly smudged at the corner of her mouth. A slow, triumphant smirk breaks through her breathless expression.

“Goodnight, Brooks,” she whispers, her voice a low, raspy vibration.

The passenger door flies open before I can even find my voice, the cold wind and rain rushing into the cab for a split second before she tumbles out onto the porch steps.

I don’t move.

I just sit here, my knuckles locked white around the steering wheel, gripping the leather hard enough to make it creak beneath my hands. Through the blurred, water-streaked windshield, I watch the dark outline of her porch.

One second.

Two.

Three.

Every single instinct I possess—the raw part of my brain that usually stays locked down behind a badge and a schedule—is violently pulling in the exact same direction.

Go after her.

The urge hits so hard it feels physical, a phantom shove against my ribs.

Get out of the truck. March across that muddy yard. Shove that heavy front door open.

Watch her turn around.

Watch that smart mouth curve into a slow, knowing smile because she’d know exactly why I came back, exactly how badly she broke my concentration.

My jaw aches from how hard I’m clenching it.

The diesel engine idles steady beneath me, a heavy, familiar vibration through the frame, and right now, that mechanical hum is the only damn thing keeping me anchored to reality.

Because if I let myself imagine it for even another second—her standing in that dim hallway, those wide, dark eyes looking up at me, the fading taste of that berry lipstick still burning on my tongue—I am in serious, irreversible trouble.

I yank one hand off the wheel and drag it down my face, hard.