Page 73 of The Goat Next Door

“Come on, Soph,” I say, unbuckling the belt. “Pack up the lizards. We’ve gotta go run an inspection.”

The lane down to the Gilded Goat is a mess of deep, gray ruts. When we clear the tree line, the old farmhouse looks smaller in the bright morning light, the paint peeling in long, curly ribbons.

But the porch is different. The U-Haul boxes are gone, replaced by a pair of rusty iron milk cans filled with wild ferns and those big, bright pink peonies that grow along the creek.

Ember is sitting on the top step, knees pulled to her chest, wearing an oversized gray sweatshirt and faded denim shorts. Her gold curls are piled on top of her head in a messy knot held together by a green plastic clip, and she’s holding a thick book.

When the truck rumbles to a halt, she looks up, her dark eyes blinking against the glare.

“Well, look at this,” she says, her voice bright as she stands up. “My favorite firefighter has arrived. Am I being cited for unauthorized porch decoration, Chief?”

“The ferns are within regulation,” I say, reaching into the back seat to haul Sophie down. “I heard your propane lines are probably air-locked. If the regulator sticks in this humidity, you’re going to have pressure backing up into a forty-year-old manifold.”

Ember looks at the heavy pipe wrench in my left hand, then down at Sophie, her face breaking into a wide, easy smile. “Sophie! Hello. Did you bring the triceratops to inspect the premises?”

“He’s in the truck,” Sophie says, marching up the porch steps like she owns the place. “Daddy said Kevin smells like wet wool. Does he?”

“Kevin smells like rainbows,” Ember laughs, giving Sophie a high-five.

She looks up at me, her eyes full of that sharp, teasing light. “You brought a lot of hardware for a simple check, neighbor.”

I cut my eyes toward the side of the house, where the big silver propane tank sits in the tall grass.

“The regulator valve on these old installations requires a heavy torque. Where’s the cellar key?”

“I don’t have a key,” Ember says, following me down the porch, her bare feet clicking softly against the old wood. “The door’s just held shut by a piece of wire. I haven’t been down there yet because it smells like spiders and old turnips.”

“It’s a cellar, Ember,” I say, kneeling in the damp clover beside the tank.

The copper line is green with oxidation. I fit the jaws of the pipe wrench around the nut, my muscles stiffening, as I lean into the metal. The wrench resists, then lets out a sharp crack as the thread gives way. A small hiss of propane gas escapes.

“Is it supposed to make that sound?” Ember asks, leaning over my shoulder.

She’s close enough that I can feel the heat coming off her.

“It’s clearing the air lock,” I say. “If I didn’t clear this, the pressure drop would have tripped the safety diaphragm in this heat. You would have been sitting up here with no way to cook.”

“So you’re my savior,” she says, her voice smooth and teasing. I can hear the smile in her words. “Again. The local grandmas are going to start thinking we have a routine.”

I tighten the nut with one last, heavy, aggressive turn. I stand up, wiping the grease and clover off my palms, and finally meet her gaze.

She’s standing way too close.

In this bright, unforgiving summer sun, I can see every detail—the freckles on her nose, the way her eyes are searching mine. She looks like she belongs in a boutique, not a rotting farmhouse.

“There is no routine, Ember,” I say. “You’re young, you’re from a city where people pay twenty bucks for a cup of coffee, and you’re living in a structure that’s one good windstorm away from becoming a pile of kindling. This isn’t a game. You don’t have the callouses for this place.”

Ember’s smile doesn’t disappear, but the teasing light in her eyes shifts into something cooler and more analytical.

She steps closer, her bare toes practically touching my boot.

“I know exactly how old I am, Brooks. And I know how old you are. Thirty-one isn’t the middle ages, even if you carry yourself like you’re the town monument.”

“Daddy!” Sophie’s voice barks from the porch. “The brown goat is eating the purple book!”

The tension breaks instantly.

“Franny, no! That’s an advanced reader’s copy!” she yells, sprinting across the lawn with her gold curls flying.