Chapter Six
George
Dean
All I want is ten quiet minutes.
Ten minutes to loosen my tie, take off my shoes, and maybe—if the universe is feeling generous—drink something that isn’t lukewarm coffee from a travel mug that’s been living in my car since Monday.
Instead, I pull into the driveway and immediately slam on the brakes.
There’s a goat in the driveway.
A goat.
Standing like some sort of smug, four-legged patrol. Head high. Beard twitching. Creepy yellow eyes locked on me as if this is his property now.
And just behind him, chaos.
Poppy is in the middle of the lawn—barefoot, muddy, one arm streaked with what I hope is dirt—holding a broom. Her hair is half up, half frizz, her sundress clinging to one side of her thigh like it lost a fight with a sprinkler, and she is yelling.
At the goat.
Which is currently standing on top of a folding chair.
I park. Slowly. Like I’m defusing a bomb.
I get out and take three steps before my brain catches up with what my eyes are seeing.
The entire back garden is trashed.
One flower arrangement is overturned. There’s ribbon in the bushes. A bucket has been kicked over and is now floating in the pond. And smack in the middle of the patio—
Goat poop.
Because, of course.
“What,” I say flatly, “is happening?”
Poppy spins toward me, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to her forehead, and a wild gleam in her eye.
“I can explain.”
“You’d better.”
“There was a misunderstanding with a goat farm,” she says breathlessly. “It was supposed to be… charming.”
The goat hops down from the chair and immediately starts chewing on the hem of her dress.
“Charming,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She yanks the hem of her dress from the goat.
I gesture to the wreckage. “This is charming?”
“I didn’t know he was coming! He just—showed up. And now he won’t leave.”
“Have you tried asking him nicely?”
She shoots me a death glare. “He ignores boundaries.”
“So do you.”
She throws up her hands. “Okay, you know what? That’s fair. But it’s not like I can just un-goat the situation.”
The goat chooses this moment to leap onto a wicker loveseat and knock over an entire tray of welcome gift bags. One lands in the mud. Another lands in what is definitely not mud.
Poppy groans and grabs her forehead.
I stare at the sky.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Of course this is how today ends. Of course I come home to find a farm animal desecrating my lawn.”
I step around a suspicious pile and look at her again.
She’s out of breath, covered in dirt, one strap of her dress falling off her shoulder.
And she’s laughing.
Low at first, then louder—an uncontrollable, slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles out of her like she’s finally cracked.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “It’s not funny. It’s absolutely not funny.”
The goat bleats.
She laughs harder.
I cross my arms. “This wedding is going to kill me.”
She snorts. “You? I’m the one who just got headbutted into a flower bucket.”
I blink. “You what?”
She gestures to her soaked dress. “Fell backward. Knocked over the whole thing. Hosed myself off. It’s been a day.”
She’s still laughing. And now, despite myself, I feel it too—that twitch at the edge of my mouth, a laugh that I try to bite back, even though I already know I won’t succeed.
Because somehow, this ridiculous mess? This feral goat, the mud, and this woman who showed up and turned my house into a set for an SNL skit?
It’s the most alive this place has felt in years—a small, annoying part of my brain supplies.
Even if I hate it. Even if I don’t have time for it.
Poppy exhales, hands on her hips, eyes turned toward the wreckage. Her hair is stuck to her neck in damp curls. She’s exhausted. Covered in grass.
“Have you eaten?” I ask.
She turns her head slowly. “What?”
I gesture vaguely toward the house. “I’ve got sandwiches. From this place in town that doesn’t screw them up.”
She blinks like I just offered her a diamond necklace.
“You’re offering me food?”
I sigh. “I’m not trying to poison you. It’s just a sandwich.”
“And you’re not going to follow it up with a list of venue restrictions or goat-related fines?”
“I can’t promise that.”
She smiles, small and real.
“Give me five minutes,” she says, already heading toward the guest cottage.
Five minutes later, I knock once on the guest cottage door, holding a brown paper bag and two bottles of sparkling water under my arm. The goat is nowhere to be seen, which is either a good sign or the start of a horror movie.
The door creaks open.
She’s changed. A cotton sweatshirt, shorts, hair pulled up, face still flushed. She looks… softer. Less feral. But only just.
“You really brought me dinner?” she asks.
“It’s a sandwich.”
She opens the door wider. “Come in before George eats you.”
“George?” I ask, stepping through the door.
“It’s what I’m calling the goat now.”
I nod like it makes perfect sense.
Inside, it’s cozy and smells faintly like vanilla, her, and the lemon cleaner I used before she arrived.
Her things are neatly stacked—her planner, an emergency sewing kit, a notebook covered in sticky tabs.
There’s a floral-print mug on the windowsill and a playlist humming softly from her phone.
A couple of candles are burning on the coffee table.
I’ve never seen this place appear quite so lived in.
I’m not sure how I feel about that.
I pass her the bag.
“Roasted turkey with smoked gouda,” I say. “I had a backup.”
“Dean,” she says, her voice mock-serious. “Are you… being nice to me?”
“I’m legally required to offer aid in a crisis.”
She snorts, unwraps the sandwich, and takes a bite. She moans. “Dear God.”
I nod, acknowledging that yes, Fatty’s sandwiches are the bomb.
We sit on opposite ends of the couch. Not touching. Not talking for a long minute.
Just… eating.
It’s the first quiet moment since she arrived. The first time I’ve felt like maybe this wedding won’t actually kill me.
And then—
CRASH.
Something hits the window.
We both bolt upright.
“Was that…?” she whispers.
“Sounded like a tray.”
I move toward the window and pull back the curtain. George is on my patio table. But this time… he’s not alone.
George stands on the table, and Muffin is there too, at the base, staring up at him like a fuzzy, thunder-vested war general. One paw raised. Silent. Unmoving.
George munches on a stick.
Muffin growls—a low, slow, threatening little rumble that suggests she’s finally had enough.
“Is this happening?”
Poppy appears beside me and gasps. “Are they—are they having a standoff?”
“Looks like it.”
George flicks an ear, hops in a slow circle, and makes direct eye contact with the dog. Muffin stays rooted, gaze locked, vibrating with judgment and ten pounds of CBD-powered restraint.
“I think she’s about to snap,” I whisper.
“She’s trying to protect her turf.”
“I respect that.”
We watch in silent horror as George casually hops down from the table.
Muffin launches.
Everything erupts. There’s barking. Bleating. A flying potted plant.
Poppy groans and covers her eyes. “This is a nightmare.”
I reach for the door. “No,” I say. “This is Tuesday.”
Only Tuesday?
I breathe. In through the nose. Out through the mouth.
The goat isn’t the only trespasser. There’s something else skittering across my carefully pruned life—bright, relentless, and wearing floral-print sneakers. I’m just not sure whether Poppy Monroe is here to ruin my lawn or whatever’s left of my sanity.
***
The house is finally quiet.
Which is saying something, considering that two hours ago there was goat poop on my patio and my lawn was torn half to shreds by a demented goat.
I’m showered. And Muffin is curled up beside me in bed. I don’t remember when she graduated from porch dog to bedtime snuggler. But here we are.
The box with her brush arrived today—soft-bristle, detangling, the whole nine. I open it and peel away the packaging like it’s sacred. Because apparently, I’m that guy now.
“Okay,” I mutter, settling in. “You ready?”
Muffin sighs. A big, dramatic exhale, but she doesn’t move. I take that as consent.
I start brushing. Slow, careful strokes. Avoiding the sensitive spot behind her back leg where she always flinches.
“Can’t have you getting matted,” I murmur. “You’ve got standards to uphold.”
The finest mutt this side of the Hudson River.
She grunts, snuggles in deeper, and lets me keep going.
For a while, we sit in silence. Just the soft bristle of the brush working through tangled fur and the occasional snore.
And then—because no one else is here—I say it out loud.
“She’s a disaster.”
Muffin opens one eye.
“Poppy,” I clarify. “She’s chaos. Loud. Messy. Overly enthusiastic. Probably responsible for at least two dozen zoning violations.”
Muffin blinks once. Noncommittal.
“And she talks with her hands. Constantly. Like she’s conducting an invisible orchestra.”
Silence.
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t care how pretty she is.”
Muffin blinks again. Slightly slower this time.
“Don’t give me that look. I know you noticed.”
I pause the brushing.
“She’s infuriating,” I say, more to the room than the dog. “Always humming. Always smiling. Stealing my lawn with flower buckets and a vision. Lighting candles in the guest house.”
Muffin yawns.
I go back to brushing.
“And now she’s got a goat.”
Another long pause.
“A goat, Muffin.”
She doesn’t respond.
I lean back against the headboard and exhale. “George is a complete and total dick.”
That, she agrees with. A low growl rumbles in her chest.
“See? Finally, something we see eye to eye on.”
She sighs again and shifts closer.
And even though I won’t admit it—to her, or myself—I keep brushing long after I need to.