Just not his best friend’s sister.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Weston
I stand outside of a nice, upscale brewery, peeking in through the massive windows. The singles event is already going on, and I know all I have to do is walk in, get a name tag, and start socializing with New York City singles. However…
I don’t want to.
And that might be the first honest thought I’ve had all night.
The truth is, I’m only here because I’m still reeling after what happened with Brittany. I had no intention of ever becoming secret pen pals. No intention of ever kissing her. But I’ve beencrushingon her since I first laid eyes on her, and maybe those letters were some quiet hope that I might win her heart, even if I knew I shouldn’t
Britt’s one of those people who’s impossiblenotto like. Which is exactly why I need to stop writing to her. She said so herself, she’s not ready for any sort of relationship—that I’m a risk, and I get that. Iama risk. Falling for anyone is a risk.
Well … and there’s the Parker factor, too.
But he’d get over it … Right?
A group of guys brush past me, one of them bumping my elbow hard enough to knock me off balance, but they don’t even notice. They’re laughing, already halfway down the sidewalk. Younger. Loud. On their way inside.
I watch them disappear through the doors, and something about it makes my chest sink.
Dating has kind of become my default. What I do. Who I am.
And standing here, staring at another room full of name tags and forced smiles, I realize I don’t actually know what I like to do when I’m not trying to meet someone.
I exhale slowly, the breath visible in the cool night air, then turn on my heels and start back down the street, the noise and light from the brewery fading with every step.
This wasn’t supposed to be my whole life—working, dating, hoping one of the dates would finally turn into something. Somewhere along the way, it all started to blur together, and maybe that’s the real problem. I don’t actually know what to do with my time if it isn’t built around who might walk into my life next.
Maybe I should find something else to do with my free time.
Something that isn’t a date.
Something that isn’t built around who might walk into my life next.
The city hums around me as I head home, the familiar route stretching longer than it usually does, my thoughts looping in the same unhelpful circles.
That’s when I see it.
“Volunteers Needed.”
The sign slows my steps as I glance up at the Humane Society’s big glass windows, catching glimpses of movement inside. Tails. Shapes. A dog pressing its nose to the glass.
I hesitate. I’ve always liked animals, but I haven’t had one since before college. It never really made sense in the city.
But volunteering doesn’t mean commitment. It doesn’t mean rearranging my entire life.
It just means showing up.
Before I can overthink it, I reach for the door and step inside. The sound hits me first—barking, whining, nails skittering on concrete. Then, the smell. Soap of some kind.
And for the first time all night, I don’t feel like I’m here to look for something.
“Can I help you?” an older, dark-haired woman says from behind the front desk. She looks frazzled, her hair up in a ponytail with stray locks going this way and that, and a thick sheen of sweat on her forehead. “If you want to adopt, you have to fill out an application. They’re easier to fill out online.”
I shake my head. “I’m not adopting … I saw that you’re looking for volunteers. I was just wondering what hours you need someone.”
