3. Ember
Ember
“Initial reports described her as ‘confident.’
Later corrections replaced this with ‘unstable but charming.’”
— The Local Newspaper
The floorboards are vibrating.
It’s not a subtle, comforting hum like a high-end refrigerator or a well-made car engine. No, this is a deep, shuddering, death-rattle vibration that suggests the Gilded Goat’s entire structural foundation is currently having a localized panic attack.
I’m standing in the center of what the Zillow listing generously referred to as the “grand parlor,” holding a plastic broom like a weapon.
“Optimism,” I say out loud to the peeling wallpaper. “Optimism is a choice, Ember. You can style your way out of this.”
The wallpaper peels a little farther off the wall right in front of me.
Like the house itself disagrees.
I take three steps forward, intending to tackle the mountain of dried leaves in the corner, and immediately stop. A loud, sharp CRACK echoes through the room as my left heel sinks a full inch into a rotting piece of oak flooring.
I freeze, holding my breath, half-expecting to plunge directly through the timber and into whatever terrifying, spider-infested abyss lies in the crawlspace below.
The house doesn’t swallow me. Not yet.
But it feels like it’s thinking about it.
I pull my foot out of the wood with a wet sound and stare at the damage.
The floorboards are covered in a dark, fuzzy velvet that I am ninety percent sure is black mold.
I look up at the ceiling. The water stain is actually dripping.
Drip. Drip. Drip. Every drop lands squarely on the center of one of my heavy cardboard art history boxes with a hollow, mocking thud.
“It’s fine,” I mutter. “It’s a blank canvas. An industrial-chic, rustic-gothic blank canvas.”
My phone vibrates in my jumpsuit pocket. I pull it out with a thumb that is already black with soot from the doorknob.
Dad: Ember, darling. I am currently rewriting chapter four of The Billionaire’s Secret Stable. Do you know if stables smell more like cedar or masculine musk? Need it for sensory immersion.
I stare at the screen.
This is my reality.
Most people have parents who give them practical financial advice or talk them out of impulsive, multi-million-dollar real estate acquisitions.
My parents are USA Today bestselling erotica authors who write under the shared pen name “Penelope Wild.”
Ember: Right now, Dad, it smells like a wet basement and regret. Go with cedar. Masculine musk is just unwashed laundry.
I slide the phone back into my pocket, letting out a long sigh.
Why the actual hell did I have to be so different? Why couldn’t I just buy a normal, predictable apartment with exposed brick and a concierge who manages my packages?
Why did I have to buy a farm?
Oh, right, because my parents are delightfully insane and raised me to believe that logic is just a suggestion. Because somewhere deep in my brain is a tiny, unstable theater kid screaming, make it whimsical or die.
I march out the front door, leaving it hanging open on its single, screeching hinge, and descend the porch steps.
It’s intoxicatingly beautiful out here, assuming you don’t look directly at the house.
The twenty-five acres of wild pasture roll out toward the horizon, bordered by the dark, heavy trees that separate my land from Brooks’s property.
I walk down the dirt path toward the barn.
It is massive, built of weathered gray timber that has turned silver with age. It leans about five degrees to the left, but compared to the house, it looks like the Empire State Building.
And there, leaning over the weathered split-rail fence of the front paddock, are my investments.
Twelve goats.
They are currently staring at me in absolute, unified silence.
They are a mix of white, brown, and speckled black, ranging from small, bouncy-looking ones to a few massive, shaggy beasts with horns that look like they could easily puncture the door of my rental truck.
“Good morning, team!” I say, approaching the fence line with a wide, theatrical wave.
“I am Emmy, your new creative director and CEO. I know the previous management was a bit traditional, but we are pivoting to a high-fashion, experiential agricultural model. Think glitter. Think branding. Think luxury dairy products.”
The largest goat—a massive, cream-colored animal with a long, majestic beard and ears that hang down like a basset hound’s—lets out a loud, rasping BARRRRRHM.
“I love the energy,” I say, leaning against the fence post. I pull a small notebook and a pen out of my pocket. “First item on the agenda: re-branding. The current names on the bill of sale are entirely too pedestrian. We need marketability.”
I point my pen at a small, brown goat with white socks on its front legs. “You are now Chanel. Very chic, very minimalist.”
Chanel turns around, lowers her head, and violently butts her skull against a fence post.
“Okay, a bit temperamental. Very high fashion,” I note, scribbling it down. I point to a speckled gray one who is currently trying to chew on a rusted piece of wire. “You are Vivienne. Obviously. Punk rock, anti-establishment.”
I go down the line, channeling every ounce of my design-school energy into the roster. We get Prada, Gucci, Saint Laurent, Valentino, Balenciaga, Versace, Dior, Armani, and Givenchy.
The massive one with the beard is the last one left.
He hasn’t broken eye contact with me once.
His rectangular pupils are fixed on my face with a level of cold, existential judgment that makes me feel like I’m back in Marcus’s office presenting a logo that didn’t use enough “disruptive primary colors.”
“And you,” I say, stepping closer to the rail and pointing my pen at his nose. “You are Tom Ford. Sleek, authoritative, slightly intimidating, but ultimately a classic.”
Tom Ford does not move. He lets out a low, wet snort.
“Come here, Tom,” I coo, reaching my hand out over the wooden rail, palm up, the way the internet told me to approach animals. “Come on, boy.”
The goat doesn’t budge.
Behind him, Vivienne and Gucci are currently engaged in a violent wrestling match over a dead thistle, but Tom Ford remains a monument of cream-colored spite.
From the road behind me, the distant rumble of an engine catches my attention.
I look over my shoulder, half-expecting to see Brooks’s heavy white truck returning to check on me—or more likely, to hand me an invoice for his mailbox.
But the driveway is empty.
The lane leading past my house toward his property is quiet.
He’s probably in town, doing heroic fire chief things or organizing his feelings into a neatly categorized list.
I turn back to the fence. “Alright, Tom. Let’s try this again. Chanel! Prada! Tom Ford!”
None of them look up. Valentino is currently trying to eat a piece of loose bark off the fence.
I sigh, leaning my chin on my hands. “Come on, guys. I paid like a million dollars for this lifestyle. The least you could do is acknowledge the hierarchy.”
A soft, raspy voice cuts through the wind from the direction of the road. “He don’t answer to that.”
I jump, my boots sliding in the mud as I spin around.
Standing on the grassy shoulder just outside the fence line is an elderly man.
He’s wearing a pair of faded overalls that look like they’ve been washed approximately four thousand times, a stained John Deere cap, and he’s leaning on a wooden walking stick that is carved to look like a snake.
“Oh! Hello,” I say, recovering my posture and wiping a bit of mud off my sleeve. “I’m Emmy. I just bought the—”
“I know,” the old man interrupts. “You’re the city girl. Arthur’s real estate man said you had purple hair on the internet.”
“It was temporary,” I clarify, clicking my pen. “Are you a neighbor?”
He ignores the question entirely, pointing his carved snake stick at the massive goat. “That one there. He don’t know who Tom Ford is. He don’t care about no high-street designers.”
“What does he answer to?”
“Kevis,” the old man grunts.
I blink. “Kevis? Like… Kevin with an ‘S’?”
“Kevis,” he repeats. “Arthur named him after his cousin who got kicked out of the county fair for rigging the pumpkin weigh-in. He only listens to Kevis. And he only likes stale saltine crackers.”
I turn back to the fence, skeptical. I clear my throat, leaning over the rail toward the giant animal. “Kevis?”
The goat’s ears instantly twitch. His head snaps up, his rectangular eyes locking onto mine with a sudden, terrifying intensity. He lets out a loud, eager BARRRRRHM and trots over to the fence, shoving his nose directly against my jumpsuit sleeve.
“Oh,” I say, taking a step back as Kevis tries to nibble on my zipper. “Well. That is… confusing for the brand, but we can work with it. Kevis it is.”
I look back to the road to thank the old man for the tip, but he’s already shuffling down the asphalt, his walking stick clicking against the ground. He doesn’t look back once.
“Great,” I mutter, checking my watch. It’s nearly noon. “You know what? Keep your original names. Apparently I’m the only one here who cares about aesthetics. Kevis the goat. Sure. Why not.”
My stomach lets out a loud, hollow growl, reminding me that my breakfast consisted of a single lukewarm energy bar at a gas station sixty miles ago.
The Gilded Goat has no food, no water, and a kitchen that looks like a filming location for a horror movie.
I need supplies.
Since I want to take in the fresh country air and clear my head, I decide to leave the giant rental truck in the driveway. The town center looked incredibly close on the map anyway.
A brisk, European-style walking tour of my new community is exactly what I need.
? ? ?
Ten minutes into the walk, I realize that “country miles” are a completely different geometric measurement than city blocks.
By the time I actually reach Main Street, my leather boots are pinching my feet, my throat is parched, and I am sweating in places I didn’t know could sweat.
I push open the heavy wooden door of “General Store & Hardware,” a small brass bell chiming above my head.