The entire back garden is trashed.
One flower arrangement is overturned. There’s ribbon in the bushes. A bucket has been kicked over and is now floating in the pond. And smack in the middle of the patio—
Goat poop.
Because, of course.
“What,” I say flatly, “is happening?”
Poppy spins toward me, cheeks flushed, hair plastered to her forehead, and a wild gleam in her eye.
“I can explain.”
“You’d better.”
“There was a misunderstanding with a goat farm,” she says breathlessly. “It was supposed to be… charming.”
The goat hops down from the chair and immediately starts chewing on the hem of her dress.
“Charming,” I repeat.
“Yes.” She yanks the hem of her dress from the goat.
I gesture to the wreckage. “This is charming?”
“I didn’t know he was coming! He just—showed up. And now he won’t leave.”
“Have you tried asking him nicely?”
She shoots me a death glare. “He ignores boundaries.”
“So do you.”
She throws up her hands. “Okay, you know what? That’s fair. But it’s not like I can justun-goatthe situation.”
The goat chooses this moment to leap onto a wicker loveseat and knock over an entire tray of welcome gift bags. One lands in the mud. Another lands in what is definitely not mud.
Poppy groans and grabs her forehead.
I stare at the sky.
“Of course,” I mutter. “Of course this is how today ends. Of course I come home to find a farm animal desecrating my lawn.”
I step around a suspicious pile and look at her again.
She’s out of breath, covered in dirt, one strap of her dress falling off her shoulder.
And she’s laughing.
Low at first, then louder—an uncontrollable, slightly hysterical laugh that bubbles out of her like she’s finally cracked.
“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “It’s not funny. It’s absolutelynotfunny.”
The goat bleats.
She laughs harder.
I cross my arms. “This wedding is going to kill me.”
