Page 39 of The Grump Next Door
“This is getting ridiculous,” I mutter, shaking a small bucket of grain the farm left behind. “Come on, George. Be cool.”
George snorts.
I lower the bucket and glance across the lawn toward the house. Dean is pacing, his tie half-undone, sleeves rolled up, and eyes fixed on his phone as if he can will the goat removal team into existence. He’s muttering under his breath. I catch the wordlawsuit.
Muffin, for the record, is hiding somewhere inside. She wantsnopart of this. Smart girl.
“I called them again,” Dean calls out, looking up. “Still no answer.”
“Maybe they got stuck in traffic,” I offer weakly.
“Or maybe this is a prank and I now own livestock.”
“Could be worse,” I say. “You could own two.”
Dean shoots me a look that could curdle milk.
And that’s when it happens.
A car pulls into the driveway. At first, I think—finally. The goat farm. George is saved. We’re saved. But it’s not a pickup truck. It’s a sleek SUV with tinted windows.
The door opens.
Ivy climbs out in the cutest yellow sundress, big sunglasses, and a perfect messy bun that definitely took a professional forty-five minutes to create.
Mason gets out next, guitar case in one hand, coffee in the other, grinning like he’s arriving at summer camp.
“Surprise!” Ivy calls, waving.
Dean and I both freeze.
“Oh no,” I whisper.
Dean mutters something I won’t repeat in polite company and immediately starts walking toward them.
Too late. George leaps from the table, hits the grass with a thunk, and bolts in a half-circle—directly toward Ivy.
Mason yelps. Ivy shrieks. Dean sprints.
And I’m left holding a grain bucket, wondering if this wedding has an exorcism package I forgot to check off.
Two minutes later, George is finally wrangled—barely—and tied to the porch post with a length of garden twine I truly hope will hold. Because if not—heaven help us all.
Ivy fans herself with a sample program, visibly rattled but holding it together in that cool-girl influencer way.
Mason, bless him, is laughing. Of course he is.
“Was that… a goat?” Ivy asks, pulling off her sunglasses.
Dean adjusts his collar. “He’s being picked up. Allegedly.”
I step forward, clipboard in hand, ready to salvage what I can. “You’re early! We thought you were coming tomorrow.”
“I wanted to see the space, and I couldn’t wait,” Ivy admits. “Mason said you had everything under control.”
Dean looks at me. “Define control.”
I ignore him. “Let me show you around.”
