Page 71 of The Goat Next Door

Brooks walks over to the stove, stopping so close behind me that the heat radiating from his chest cuts straight through my apron. He leans his head over my shoulder, looking down into the pot, his jaw shifting as he inspects the culinary disaster.

“That looks like caulking compound, Emmy,” he says. “Did you use a recipe, or did you just guess the ratio of milk to industrial waste?”

“I followed the recipe perfectly!” I say, spinning around to face him, the wooden spoon dripping a thick, sour white drop onto his clean leather boot.

I wrinkle my nose at him. “The infographic said to heat it, add the coagulant, and wait for the magic of fermentation. It did not mention that the magic would smell like a damp barnyard.”

Brooks looks down at his boot, then raises his eyes back to mine.

“The magic failed because you used an aluminum pot with citric acid, city girl. The metal reacts with the acid. You’re essentially eating oxidized screen door.”

I blink. “The infographic did not specify what sort of bowl I should use.”

“Because the infographic assumed you had a basic lick of common sense,” Brooks taunts smoothly, a slow, dangerous smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He steps an inch closer, his deep voice dropping into a low, raspy vibration that makes my pulse instantly spike. “You’re stubborn, you know that? You get an idea in your head and you just push until the whole grid blows up.”

“I am highly determined, Chief,” I whisper, my voice coming out a little breathless as the memory of his mouth against mine flashes hot through my veins.

I lean forward just a fraction.

“And I am going to make this cheese. I am going to make the most mathematically perfect, elegant chèvre this valley has ever seen, and I am going to force you to eat it on a cracker until you admit that I am a master of rural agriculture.”

He reaches out, his thumb catching a stray smear of white goat curd on my collarbone, his touch lingering against my skin with a slow, heavy pressure that makes my breath catch in my throat.

“I’ll buy the crackers, Emmy,” he murmurs, his thumb sliding down before he slowly pulls his hand back, tucking his fingers into his pockets with a tight, rigid snap. “But until then, turn off the burner. I’m not deploying the engine company for a dairy-related toxic cloud event.”

“The burner is off,” I huff, turning back to the pot to hide the sudden, burning flush on my cheeks. “But don’t think you’ve won. This is just phase one of the product development cycle.”

“Sure it is,” Brooks laughs, the warm, rumbling sound echoing off the low kitchen ceiling as he walks toward the utility closet. “Now step aside. Let’s look at this water heater before you try to turn it into a distillery.”

18

Brooks

“Marriage is just teamwork,

except one of you always knows where

the good snacks are and refuses to share.”

— Davis

I grab my leather gear bag from the passenger seat, kill the ignition, and haul myself out into the humid, sticky night air. It clings to my neck, thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and it doesn’t do a damn thing to clear the fog in my head.

Inside the station bay, the concrete floor has already been hosed down by the night shift, the water pooling in the iron drains with a faint, metallic gurgle.

Davis is sitting at the pine table in the corner, his heavy boots propped on a milk crate, a mug of black tea steaming between his thick, scarred fingers.

He’s twenty-nine, my best friend since we were kids, and he has the annoying habit of noticing everything I’m trying to hide.

He’s also currently trying to convince his wife, Sarah, to let him buy a jet ski, which is currently going about as well as a house fire.

“Ridge road clear?” he asks, not looking up from his phone. He snorts, likely reading a text from his wife that probably involves the word ‘divorce.’ “Sarah says if I buy that jet ski, she’s going to use it to flee the country. She has zero chill, man.”

“Two hemlocks down near the old culvert,” I say, tossing my gear bag into my locker. “County crew took it. It’s passable if you’ve got high clearance.”

Davis lets out a low, knowing sound, finally looking up. He’s got that look on his face—the one that says he’s about to be a massive pain in my ass.