“Hmm,” she hums, her eyes shifting back and forth between me and Jacks. “Want my opinion?”
“No,” I say, a little frantic.
“Okay, asshole,” she teases, rolling her eyes. “I’ll have you know I’m very good at giving advice. Just ask any of the girls.”
“I’m sure you are, but it’s nothing. I’m tired anyway. It’s been a long night.”
“Suit yourself.” She shrugs. “Jace, you ready for bed?”
Jacks looks at her and then to me.
“Just follow your gut,” he says. “Stop overthinking it.” He stands and begins to walk across the room toward Lacey.
My gut?My gut’s telling me I’d fuck it up because I always do. My dick though? Fuck, it’s telling me something else entirely. And if I’m honest, so is my heart.
“Night, Tanner,” she chimes. “If you change your mind, I’d be happy to give you my opinion.”
“Noted,” I say, chuckling. “Night y’all.”
I bring my bowl and spoon to the sink, turning over the events of tonight in my head. I know I’m right; it doesn’t matter how I feel, she’d never go for a guy like me, and even if she did, I’d inevitably mess it up.
Despite all of this being true, I climb into bed, and when I close my eyes, it’s her I see.
CHAPTER 3: SO PREDICTABLE
WREN
There is nothing worse than Monday morning. I make my way across the parking lot holding two large boxes full of supplies for Dogwood Manor’s annual summer party, mentally going through my checklist of everything I need to get done this morning before it officially begins.
Robin, the receptionist, meets me at the door.
“Morning, Wren,” she says, holding one of the doors open as I walk through. “It looked like you could use a hand. Can I help you with those?”
“Thank you, but I think I’ve got them.”
She smiles and returns behind the front desk, and I continue through the front lobby and the dining room. Dogwood Manor’s resident lovebirds are sitting at a table across from one another, holding hands, drinking coffee.
“Morning, Ms. Clara. Morning, Mr. Eugene,” I say as I walk through the dining room.
“Good Morning, Wren,” Mr. Eugene says, setting his coffee mug down on the table. He’s dressed in a short-sleeved, plaid button up shirt and khakis. His gray hair is slicked back with gel, and his glasses frame his soft browneyes. Ms. Clara is wearing one of her signature mumus—this one is teal and covered with sparkly pool floats— and matching shoes. Her white curls are styled, and she’s wearing a little bit of makeup that makes her cheeks look rosy.
“You two are up and ready early,” I say, stopping to talk to them.
“We’re looking forward to the party today and wanted to be ready to go,” Ms. Clara clarifies.
I check my watch, and it’s seven forty-five. “Shouldn’t you be with Lacey doing occupational therapy?” I giggle.
“No, she said I didn’t have to do it today because of the party,” she argues.
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Yes, dear. I might be old, but my memory isn’t completely shot.”
“So, what do you have planned for us today?” Mr. Eugene asks. His southern accent rolls off his tongue like molasses.
I open my mouth to explain the schedule for today’s events, but I’m interrupted when my friend, Lacey, comes around the corner breathing heavily, her blonde ponytail swinging behind her.
“There you are, Ms. Clara. I’ve been looking all over for you. We were supposed to start your OT session fifteen minutes ago.”
