Page 2 of The Goat Next Door

Wealth, it turns out, doesn’t spontaneously scrub your baseboards.

There is a towering laundry mountain in the corner, design proofs are scattered across the floor, and a mug containing half a cup of cold, graying coffee is sitting on the edge of my table. A thin, oily film has formed over the top of the liquid. It looks toxic.

I am wearing an oversized university sweatshirt that smells faintly of old popcorn and black leggings with permanent white acrylic paint stains. And according to a brief, horrifying glance in the bathroom mirror, there is a streak of charcoal smudged across my left cheekbone from a sketchpad session three days ago.

Apparently, becoming an overnight multi-millionaire doesn’t automatically make you less of a disaster.

Disappointing, honestly.

I always assumed wealth came with immediate improvements to one’s posture and a sudden, natural affinity for linen trousers.

So much for the instant transformation into a chic, poised heiress.

I’m still just Emmy: disorganized, covered in graphite, and breathing through my mouth because my nose is clogged from dust.

You know that phrase people always post on social media? “If I won the lottery, I wouldn’t tell anyone, but there would be signs.”

Yeah, I used to not believe that.

I had a whole blueprint mapped out in my head for the exact moment those millions hit my account.

I was going to be predictable.

I was going to buy a ridiculously oversized pink house, the kind that looks like a Malibu Barbie dream home threw up on a suburban cul-de-sac. I was finally going to buy those ridiculously overpriced, cloud-soft sweatpants I’ve had bookmarked for three years—the ones made from the underbelly wool of ethically sourced Himalayan mountain goats.

And I was going to spend my days lounging on a velvet sofa doing absolutely nothing.

It was a good plan. It was a normal, sane person’s plan.

Instead, I have clearly lost my mind.

There are no pink houses in my browser history. There are no luxury sweats in my shopping cart. The money is there, sitting in my bank account like a ticking time bomb, and my brain has apparently decided to short-circuit in the most bizarre way possible.

Right now, the only actual sign of my massive, life-altering windfall is the fact that I’ve spent the last forty minutes staring at a listing for a goat farm.

I am not looking at mansions; I am looking at exactly twelve goats.

Twelve.

I don’t even know what you call a group of goats—a herd? A crew? A chaotic syndicate?

But according to the description, they are all included in the sale, and for some terrifying reason, my newly wealthy brain is whispering that this is my true, glorious destiny.

Marcus would probably lose his mind if he saw me trading in my stylus for a pitchfork, which honestly only makes the idea feel more reasonable by the second. I can already picture his face, his small, beady eyes blinking in horror as I explain that I am leaving the graphic design industry to become a goat owner.

The goat farm is in a town called Suncrest Hollow.

I don’t even know where that is, really.

The listing features a sprawling, slightly crooked historic farmhouse with a wraparound porch that needs some serious structural affection, surrounded by twenty-five acres of wild, unruly, beautifully un-gentrified grass.

My phone vibrates against my thigh, the sudden buzz making me jump so hard I nearly knock over the cold coffee.

It’s Mom.

I slide the bar to answer. Before I can even clear my throat, her voice is already halfway through a sentence.

“—mber? Emmy? Is it in there? Your father is literally trying to put on a tie right now, I’m not kidding, he’s shaking so bad he almost choked himself. Is it actually there?”