Page 10 of The Goat Next Door

My phone vibrates in my jumpsuit pocket. I pull it out with a thumb that is already black with soot from the doorknob.

Dad: Ember, darling. I am currently rewriting chapter four of The Billionaire’s Secret Stable. Do you know if stables smell more like cedar or masculine musk? Need it for sensory immersion.

I stare at the screen.

This is my reality.

Most people have parents who give them practical financial advice or talk them out of impulsive, multi-million-dollar real estate acquisitions.

My parents are USA Today bestselling erotica authors who write under the shared pen name “Penelope Wild.”

Ember: Right now, Dad, it smells like a wet basement and regret. Go with cedar. Masculine musk is just unwashed laundry.

I slide the phone back into my pocket, letting out a long sigh.

Why the actual hell did I have to be so different? Why couldn’t I just buy a normal, predictable apartment with exposed brick and a concierge who manages my packages?

Why did I have to buy a farm?

Oh, right, because my parents are delightfully insane and raised me to believe that logic is just a suggestion. Because somewhere deep in my brain is a tiny, unstable theater kid screaming, make it whimsical or die.

I march out the front door, leaving it hanging open on its single, screeching hinge, and descend the porch steps.

It’s intoxicatingly beautiful out here, assuming you don’t look directly at the house.

The twenty-five acres of wild pasture roll out toward the horizon, bordered by the dark, heavy trees that separate my land from Brooks’s property.

I walk down the dirt path toward the barn.

It is massive, built of weathered gray timber that has turned silver with age. It leans about five degrees to the left, but compared to the house, it looks like the Empire State Building.

And there, leaning over the weathered split-rail fence of the front paddock, are my investments.

Twelve goats.

They are currently staring at me in absolute, unified silence.

They are a mix of white, brown, and speckled black, ranging from small, bouncy-looking ones to a few massive, shaggy beasts with horns that look like they could easily puncture the door of my rental truck.

“Good morning, team!” I say, approaching the fence line with a wide, theatrical wave. “I am Emmy, your new creative director and CEO. I know the previous management was a bit traditional, but we are pivoting to a high-fashion, experiential agricultural model. Think glitter. Think branding. Think luxury dairy products.”

The largest goat—a massive, cream-colored animal with a long, majestic beard and ears that hang down like a basset hound’s—lets out a loud, rasping BARRRRRHM.

“I love the energy,” I say, leaning against the fence post. I pull a small notebook and a pen out of my pocket. “First item on the agenda: re-branding. The current names on the bill of sale are entirely too pedestrian. We need marketability.”

I point my pen at a small, brown goat with white socks on its front legs. “You are now Chanel. Very chic, very minimalist.”

Chanel turns around, lowers her head, and violently butts her skull against a fence post.

“Okay, a bit temperamental. Very high fashion,” I note, scribbling it down. I point to a speckled gray one who is currently trying to chew on a rusted piece of wire. “You are Vivienne. Obviously. Punk rock, anti-establishment.”

I go down the line, channeling every ounce of my design-school energy into the roster. We get Prada, Gucci, Saint Laurent, Valentino, Balenciaga, Versace, Dior, Armani, and Givenchy.

The massive one with the beard is the last one left.

He hasn’t broken eye contact with me once.

His rectangular pupils are fixed on my face with a level of cold, existential judgment that makes me feel like I’m back in Marcus’s office presenting a logo that didn’t use enough “disruptive primary colors.”