Chapter Seven
One guest house. One goat. One emotionally constipated lawyer. Let the games begin.
Poppy
It’s a perfect afternoon.
Sunny. Warm. Birds chirping. I stand just off the north lawn with my clipboard in one hand and a measuring tape in the other, trying to visualize where the ceremony arch will go—once we’ve confirmed it won’t topple downhill and take someone’s aunt with it.
Muffin snoozes nearby in a patch of sun, her thunder vest gone now, tongue lolling out like she’s been through some things.
She has. We both have.
I’m in the middle of taking notes about chair spacing when I hear the telltale slap of orthopedic sandals on flagstone.
“Thought I’d find you out here,” Nadine announces, as if she lives in a BBC murder mystery and I’m her prime suspect.
I turn to her. She’s holding a Tupperware container like a bribe and wearing a lemon-print visor that somehow makes her look more judgmental than usual. The shirt is linen. The energy is hostile.
“Hi,” I say, cheerful and professional because I’ve planned enough weddings to know that small-town neighbors often wield more power than local officials. “What a gorgeous day.”
“Debatable,” she replies, already extending the container. “Lemon bars. Low-sugar. No gluten. Practically health food.”
I take them because I’ve been raised right and also because I’m not sure what happens if you say no to Nadine.
“Thank you.”
Muffin lifts her head, watches Nadine approach, then slowly stands and walks over to me.
Then—dramatic as a soap opera exit—she sits directly at my feet and leans her entire weight into my leg.
Nadine squints. “Interesting.”
“Is it?”
“She usually doesn’t pick sides until at least day four.”
“I didn’t realize there were sides.”
“There are always sides,” Nadine says with conviction. “And she’s not subtle.”
Muffin lets out a soft sigh and settles in.
Nadine leans down and pets Muffin lovingly. “Oh good, Dean did brush you out.”
I highly doubt that—I can’t picture Dean being so soft, gentle, and nurturing with a dog, but whatever.
She does look somewhat more groomed than usual, though it could just be because I’m used to her wearing that little vest.
“So,” Nadine says, eyeing my clipboard, “big wedding. Big vision. Big mess waiting to happen.”
Gee, thanks.
“Hopefully not the last one,” I say with a smile that’s 90% teeth.
She hums, clearly unconvinced. “And Dean agreed to all this?”
“He did.”
“Willingly?”
I pause. “It’s his brother’s wedding.”
“Oh, I know. I just never thought he’d go for it. The Dean I know doesn’t even allow solar-powered garden lights.”
That… checks out. He’s not one for frills.
She folds her arms and glances toward the main house. “He used to live in the city, you know. Sleek little apartment. All concrete and cold air, with furniture out of a minimalist catalog.”
“I can picture it.”
“This place?” she continues, gesturing to the estate like it’s an accusation. “He bought it from a client. Nasty divorce. They just needed out. He got a screamin’ deal.”
“I… didn’t know that.”
“Oh, honey. Most people don’t. He came out here to ‘reset.’ Said it was temporary, that he planned to flip it and make a nice profit. That was three years ago.”
I look down at Muffin, who’s still glued to my leg like she’s making a statement. I brush my hand over her soft little head.
“So now he lives here,” I say.
Nadine narrows her eyes. “He exists here. That’s different. He still commutes to the city a few times a week. Ninety minutes each way.”
Before I can respond, she checks her watch and snaps the lid back onto the lemon bars.
“Well. I’ll leave you to it. Muffin has therapy at three. Acupuncture. And I need to confirm the appointment.”
She gives me one final once-over, like she’s still trying to decide if I’m a threat, a liability, or a tragic lifestyle blogger.
And then she’s gone.
Muffin stays.
I busy myself with the work ahead. Dean has commuted to the city for work today, so the property is quiet. There’s so much to do. This weekend, I’m throwing one of the most important weddings of my career—one that could make or break me.
Ivy Lin is an influencer with over thirteen million followers, and she and Mason arrive in a couple of days, so I need everything to look perfect. A yard crew is patching up the destruction caused by George yesterday, and I’ve still got a lot to do—vendors to call and magic to make happen.
It starts quietly, like all great disasters do.
One minute, I’m organizing a crate of glassware on the back patio. Muffin is curled up nearby in a rare moment of zen, the sun filtering through the trees, and I’m feeling—dare I say it?—slightly in control.
And then I hear it.
The soft clunk of hooves on wood.
Followed by a metallic rattle.
Followed by the unmistakable sound of something headbutting an innocent, helpless table.
I turn slowly.
George is standing triumphantly on the porch railing, one hoof planted on a crate of candles, the other on my clipboard. He looks like a king surveying his domain. He lets out a sharp bleat, eyes wild, beard twitching.
And then he leaps.
Straight off the porch. Lands hard. Charges.
Right at Muffin.
Muffin—peaceful, aging, full of trauma and chicken-based treats—screams.
She doesn’t bark. She screams.
Then she runs.
She shoots past me like a cannonball, ears flapping. George is right behind her, hooves clacking, head lowered like this is the final round of a medieval jousting match.
“Oh no, no, no,” I shout, dropping a box of napkin rings. “GEORGE!”
They barrel down the lawn.
Around the floral arch-in-progress.
Through a cluster of folding chairs.
Past the beverage station.
And then—miracle of miracles—a car pulls into the driveway.
A black SUV.
Dean’s car.
He steps out, fresh from the city, still in a suit. Tie straight. Shirt crisp. Eyes tired.
And then he sees it.
A goat. Chasing his dog. His neighbor’s dog?
Across his property. Through a wedding venue.
His expression doesn’t change at first—just a slight twitch at the corner of his mouth, like his soul is trying to exit through his teeth.
He sets his briefcase down. Removes his jacket. Rolls up his sleeves. And walks toward the chaos like he’s approaching a hostage negotiation.
“George!” I shout, running to catch up. “Stop! I swear to God if you eat another charger cable—”
Dean intercepts them on the side lawn.
He moves fast, to his credit. I’ll give him that. But George is… well, George.
Dean lunges for him once. Misses.
Lunges again.
Grabs him by the collar.
And just as he gets a grip—George twists, jerks, and drags Dean three feet across the grass like a man-shaped sled.
Dean digs in his heels.
“Poppy,” he says through gritted teeth, “call off your goat.”
“He’s not my goat!”
“You manifested him!”
“That’s not legally binding!”
Muffin circles back, clearly confused, then decides she’s had enough and flops down in the shade.
Dean is holding George by the collar, breathing hard.
His white shirt is smeared with mud across one shoulder, his tie hangs loose, he’s missing one shoe, and there’s a chunk of grass stuck to his sock. He’s breathing through his nose like someone counting to ten, and he has definitely reached eight.
I wipe tears from the corner of my eyes, still chuckling. “You… you okay over there?”
His glare could melt titanium. “Do I look okay?”
“Honestly?” I bite back another laugh. “You look like a Calvin Klein ad shot in rural hell.”
George sneezes. Again.
Dean exhales like it physically hurts. “I have three hours of work to do. Two meetings. One urgent client request. And this”—he gestures to George, to the grass stains, to everything—”was not on the agenda.”
“Well, neither was the goat,” I say, bristling a little. “I didn’t ask for this.”
“You didn’t not ask for it.”
I stiffen. “Excuse me?”
“You emailed a farm and sent them a Pinterest board titled ‘Rustic Dreams.’”
“First of all, it was Rustic-Chic Reception Inspiration, and second of all, I never heard back! This isn’t my fault.”
George tugs at the collar and lets out a loud, goat-y sigh.
Dean looks like he might combust.
“I came home to find my dog traumatized, my lawn destroyed, and myself being used as a human sled by a very angry farm animal.”
“Okay, that part was kind of funny—”
“It was humiliating.”
“If it helps, you looked very professional doing it!”
His jaw tightens. “It doesn’t. I don’t have time for this,” he says. “I have a career. A motion due by midnight. A senior partner breathing down my neck.”
“So maybe don’t pick now to wrestle livestock?” I snap, then immediately regret it.
His eyes narrow. “This is not what I signed up for.”
I cross my arms, heart hammering. “You think I did?”
We stand there, glaring, the lawn between us muddy and ruined, George the Goat standing perfectly still like he’s awaiting judgment.
Dean shakes his head slowly. “This wedding is a circus.”
His words sting because he’s right. I’ve always prided myself on my work, but this is not my best. And I hate that.
“I’ll get rid of George,” I say, my voice small.
“Please do,” he snaps, finally releasing the collar and wiping his hand across the front of his dress pants with disgust.
And with that, he stomps up to the house.