Page 96 of The Grump Next Door
I sprint across the lawn because dignity is a luxury I can’t afford anymore. George sees me coming and does that sideways hop thing that means he’s about to be a complete dick.
“Don’t you dare—”
He dares.
Takes off toward the ceremony arch with my veil still hanging from his mouth like some demented bridal flag. I’m chasing a goat. This is my life now.
“Need help?”
Dean’s voice stops me mid-sprint. I skid to a halt, chest heaving, one sandal half-off. He’s standing on the porch with his morning coffee, looking like a J.Crew ad while I’m out here living my worst life. His hair’s still damp from a shower. He smells like cedar and judgment.
“Does it LOOK like I need help?” I snap, shoving my sandal back on.
He takes a slow, deliberate sip of coffee. Considers the question with infuriating thoughtfulness. “Little bit.”
My eye twitches. “Your property is cursed.”
“My property was fine until you showed up.” But his mouth’s doing that thing. That almost-smile thing that makes me want to throw something at his stupidly handsome face.
George chooses this moment to leap onto the gift table with the grace of a drunk parkour enthusiast.
“GEORGE NO—”
Too late. The table collapses. Wood splinters. Wrapped presents scatter like party confetti.
“That’s coming out of your deposit,” Dean says, entirely too calm for someone watching his property get destroyed.
“What deposit?” I whirl on him.
“The one I’m retroactively charging you.” He raises his mug slightly, satisfied smirk playing at his lips.
I flip him off. He raises his mug in a mock toast, and I hate that it makes me want to laugh.
Twenty minutes later, George is tied to a tree with what might be excessive amounts of rope, and I’m surveying the damage. One broken vase. Three traumatized centerpieces. My dignity in pieces.
“Could be worse,” CeCe says.
“How?”
“Could be raining.”
I look up at the sky. “Don’t you dare jinx—”
“Poppy!” Ivy’s voice carries across the lawn. She’s power-walking toward us in designer athleisure, Mason trailing behind. “Ready for the tasting?”
The tasting.
The menu tasting. I’d forgotten that was today.
“Um. Yes! Absolutely! Just… dealing with a small goat situation.”
She stops. Notices George. “Is that—”
“Different goat,” I lie. “This one’s… Steve.”
“Steve?”
“Steve the goat. He’s… for ambiance.”
