[cottagecore_cynic]: This is the enemies-to-lovers goat-inclusive wedding novel I didn’t know I needed.
[passiveaggressiveduck]: You could’ve just said “I’m in love with a chaos goddess,” but no. We had toget herevia goat poop and candle rage.
[Judgybutjustified]: Bro. You said she’s not doing anything wrong. You invited her. She’s working. You’re just annoyed she’s not boring. You’re the asshole.
[lawyerdad22]: This isabsolutelya “grumpy introvert meets cheery extrovert” situation, and I would like a weekly update, thanks.
[goatsarepeopletoo]: George did nothing wrong. Team Goat.
I close the tab.
I need to get back to work. The internet is full of unqualified opinions from people who have no concept of nuance, legal precedent, or human decency.
Ridiculous. I shouldn’t have bothered.
Chapter Nine
Champagne and Chaos
Poppy
By morning, the lawn is pristine, the goat is nowhere to be seen, and I’ve already reorganized the seating chart twice.
Everything looks fine.
Which is exactly why I don’t trust it.
I walk up the path toward the main house, armed with two printed vendor schedules and a backup roll of washi tape. The plan is to check in with Dean, confirm the delivery window for the lighting crew, andnotlet him get under my skin.
Easy. Totally doable.
I knock lightly on the front door, expecting to hear him bark something like“What now?”
Instead, I hear… nothing.
His SUV is here, parked right where he left it last night.
I knock again and step inside.
“Hey, I have a quick—”
I stop. Blink.
Muffin is lying belly-up in the middle of Dean’s sleek, overly serious office rug—legs in the air, paws twitching as if she’s dreaming of world domination. And Dean is crouched beside her, mid-rub, giving her a tender, slow-motion belly scratch.
She is, clearly, living her best life.
“…uh. I’ll come back,” I say.
Dean looks up.
“She broke into my house again.”
I tilt my head. “She’s like ten pounds. I’m pretty sure she can’tbreakanything.”
“She wheezed until I opened the door. It was either let her in or get sued for emotional distress.”
He stands, brushing dog hair off his perfectly pressed slacks. Muffin wheezes louder, like she’s personally offended by the lack of follow-through.
