17. Ember #2
Having an actual friend—someone my own age who understands the absolute hilarity of a brooding neighbor—makes the air in the hollow feel lighter than it has since I arrived.
The Gilded Goat is also finally starting to look less like an abandoned historical lawsuit and more like an actual house.
Not a fully functional house, obviously.
There are still exposed pipes in the laundry room, one suspicious soft spot near the upstairs hallway window, and a section of porch railing Brooks keeps referring to as “a liability.”
But the broken cabinet doors are rehung now. The dining room lights actually work without flickering like a paranormal warning. And over the last few weeks we’ve managed to scrape, patch, sand, or stabilize enough things that the place finally feels lived in instead of condemned.
There are fresh curtains over the kitchen windows. The floor no longer groans like it’s spiritually suffering every time I walk across it. And at night, when the lamps are on and the windows glow gold against the pasture, the old farmhouse almost looks proud of itself again.
Which just makes me even more emotionally attached to this money pit.
? ? ?
I am standing over my pristine, newly installed vintage stove, wearing my yellow overalls with a white apron tied over the top, staring into a giant stainless-steel pot.
Inside is a gray, rubbery, curdled mass that looks less like elegant chèvre and more like a melted orthopedic shoe.
I’ve spent the last ninety minutes meticulously measuring raw goat’s milk, drops of liquid rennet, and diluted citric acid according to a highly rated digital infographic, but the chemical reaction has gone entirely off the rails.
The screen door rattles, and the heavy, slow thud of leather work boots echoes on the porch boards.
“Emmy?”
Brooks pushes the door open, his massive frame instantly filling the kitchen. He’s in his casual utility uniform—dark blue canvas trousers and a tight gray t-shirt that shows off the rigid, heavy lines of his shoulders.
He takes one step across the threshold, stops dead, and his nostrils flare as his eyes instantly narrow.
“What the hell is that smell?” he asks. “Did something crawl under the floorboards and die near the pilot light?”
“It is not a carcass, Brooks,” I snap, aggressively stirring the rubbery gray mass with a long wooden spoon. “It is artisanal goat cheese. Or rather, it is currently in the beta-testing phase of artisanal goat cheese.”
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.”