Page 22 of The Grump Next Door
“What’s the plan for the ceremony install?” she asks, jotting some notes to herself.
“Ivy wants a full floral arch—heavy on texture but still airy. Sage, dusty rose, pale peach. I was thinking of adding local wild clematis if we can get it—”
“Already ordered.”
I pause, smiling. “You’re the best.”
“I know.”
We continue working in silence for a minute, comfortable and happy. The sun shifts through the trees outside the window, scattering light across the flowers.
Gloria ties off a bouquet with a ribbon and holds it up. “You know,” she says, studying it, “for all the stress and last-minute nonsense, this wedding’s going to be beautiful.”
I nod, suddenly and unexpectedly a little emotional. “Yeah. It is.”
***
By the time I pull back into the driveway, the sun has dipped just low enough to tint the sky pink and gold. It’s that fleeting hour when everything looks romantic, soft, and slightly filtered.
Which is probably why it takes me a full five seconds to realize there’s a goat on the porch.
A real one.
Just… standing there. Like he lives here. Okay, the dog was one thing… but Dean has a goat? I’m having a hard time picturing that.
I climb out of the car and eye the goat.
He’s scruffy, charcoal gray with darker markings around his eyes, giving him a vaguely villainous look. Like a goat that oncegot cast as the bad guy in a children’s cartoon and never quite let go of the role.
He’s chewing something.
I squint.
No. Not something.
My linen table runner!
“Excuse me!” I shout, darting closer as if I’m about to perform a citizen’s arrest.
The goat—unbothered, unimpressed, and possibly entertained—does not stop chewing.
“Oh no no no,” I mutter, walking faster. “Hi. Hello. That’s… not yours.”
He flicks an ear and continues chewing.
I freeze at the foot of the porch, doing the kind of frantic mental math that only panic can induce.
Goat. Porch. Chewing. No one else around.
And then it hits me.
“Oh no.”
Is thismygoat?
I pull out my phone and scroll through my email until I find it—the message I sent to a small local farm down the road—Shelby’s Heritage Hooves. I’d attached a carefully curated mood board. Subject line: “A Rustic-Chic Reception Idea.”
I read it now like it’s a confession note.
