Page 35 of Sexy Bad Neighbor

“Yeah,” he says, smiling down at her. “My doggy. Thanks for watching her for me.”

“Bye-bye, doggy,” she calls in a singsong voice, and Paynt scoops the goat into his arms and walks toward me.

“Told you we should have named her Dog.”

I can’t help it—I laugh as we head back to his house together, the crisis momentarily averted.

“Looks like I’m going to spend the rest of the day building a pen for Spot, since it’s obvious I can’t keep her tied up with a rope. Will you babysit while I head to Home Depot for supplies?”

I’m surprised by my desire to go with him, but after that escape, I know we can’t leave the little kid alone. “Sure. That’s fine.”

“I’ll make it up to you later,” he promises when we step into his house and he deposits Spot on the floor, where her hoofs scrabble on the gleaming wood for a few seconds before she’s able to toddle off to explore. “With chocolate syrup on top.”

“Now I really can’t say no.”

“I know you can’t.” He grabs his car keys from the counter, pulls me into an embrace, and then kisses me until my knees wobble. A crash from some other room jerks us apart. “Don’t let her destroy my house, please.” And then he’s gone, leaving me to try to keep an inquisitive kid contained.

***

After Spot knocks over the trash bin, manages to climb onto the dining room table, and then begins chomping on the fringe of what looks like a handmade blanket draped over the back of Paynter’s couch, I find another length of rope and lead the goat out the back door, figuring it will be safer to hang out outside with her until he returns.

We make our way over to my yard, and even though I cringe at the idea of letting the animal into my own house, I do so because I want to change into comfortable clothing and pour myself a glass of wine, which makes it infinitely more bearable to meander about the yard with a goat on a leash.

After I wander down to the lake and laughing at the way Spot dances to the edge of the water and then scurries away over and over, as if she can’t quite work up the nerve to investigate this strange substance, my wineglass is empty, so I head back to the house in search of a refill.

When we emerge from the trees surrounding the lake, we’re actually on Paynter’s lawn, so I veer right, toward my house, just as a woman appears between our properties, carefully picking her way over the grass and fallen leaves. Even from this distance, I recognize those shoes as Louis Vuitton and that suit as one I’d passed over because the price tag was too steep, no matter how gorgeous it was. Her hair is the perfect shade of blonde; her skin is porcelain. A living, breathing China doll with taste in clothing I’ll only be able to afford after I make partner. And even then, it’ll be a stretch. But I’ll figure it out, damn it, because, God, those shoes are fabulous.

“Careful,” I call out, rushing toward her, momentarily forgetting I’m dragging a goat of all things behind me. But I cannot let her ruin those heels. “Here, step onto this paver.” Holding out my arms, I guide her toward the stones that make a path around Paynter’s house from his deck, past the decimated hydrangeas, to the driveway.

She follows my direction, but the scowl on her otherwise beautiful face doesn’t change. “Do you live here?”

“I wish,” I say with a nervous laugh, before shoving my thumb over my shoulder. “I live in that one.”

Her immaculately manicured brows—exactly two shades darker than her ash blonde hair—quirk as she gives my house a disdainful look before swivelling her gaze toward Paynter’s deck. “So you’re trespassing?”

“I, ah, we’re friends. Neighbors. Paynter and I. He-he doesn’t mind if I’m on his lawn.”

“With a goat?” She says it like I’m carting around a cockroach on a leash instead of a docile, oddly endearing, if mischievous, four-legged animal. One that has done absolutely nothing at all to offend this woman.

Unless, of course, Spot knocked over her trash or ate the woman’s begonias on her earlier rampage through the neighborhood.

“Er ... I’m baby, ah, goat sitting. For a friend.”

“We don’t allow kids in this neighborhood.”

“Kids?” I don’t remember reading that in the bylaws, and I’d read them from cover to cover to ensure I never, ever did anything to cross the esteemed homeowners’ association.

“Baby goats.” Her gaze drops to glare at poor Spot, who obliviously butts her head against the woman’s leg, which kicks out and narrowly misses stabbing the animal with a heel resembling the stem of a crystal wineglass. I gather the innocent goat into my arms and take a step away from the impossibly beautiful woman.

“Right. Actually, it states all animals must be fenced in or on a leash. It doesn’t say anything specifically about goats.” Even though I am certain no one in this stuffy neighborhood would ever imagine taking on a goat as a pet. Except Paynter.

“It should. That thing belongs on a farm, not in this community.” She even adds a sniff to the pretentious comment. “Maybe I need to revise the homeowners’ association bylaws.”

“Who are you?” Only the HOA board can revise bylaws. I’ve met the president and the board, and I don’t recall having come across this beacon for all sophisticated, professional women.

Her smile is pure Cheshire cat. She reaches out like she’s about to offer her hand to shake, drops her gaze to Spot, and pulls back again.

“I’m the new president of the homeowners’ association.”

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