Page 119 of Knot What I Expected

Not that I’ve noticed.

Except I have.

Every single night. Every time the front door opens, my stupid heart gives this ridiculous little jump before I can stop it. And every time it isn’t him?

I hate the little sinking sensation that follows.

Which is pathetic.

He isn't mine. We aren't dating. We never kissed.

Nothing happened.

We spent one afternoon together.

Cookies.

Lunch.

An argument in the park where he looked at me with those incredible golden eyes and told me I felt like more.

That was it.

And yet I’ve spent all week wondering whether he’s safe. Whether he’s still fighting that same wildfire? If it’s contained yet. Whether he’s been hurt. Is he eating? Sleeping?

Whether—stop. I have enough problems tonight without adding Rowan fucking Cross to the list.

Problem number two?

The bachelorette party.

I should've known the guaranteed hundred bucks was too good to be true.

Because apparently an entire group of women missed the memo explaining that Mean Girls was a movie, not an instructional guide for adult behavior.

There are at least twelve of them in Dick’s back room.

Maybe more.

All dressed in various shades of pink except the bride, who’s wearing white so tight I can practically identify her internal organs.

They’re loud.

Drunk.

Entitled.

And apparently, every single one believes she’s starring in her own reality show.

Which leaves me half-soaked in stale beer while waiting hand and foot on a bunch of prima donnas who have spent the better part of two hours criticizing everything from the drinks to the music to my body.

Whatever.

I’ve survived worse. Much worse. This is a piece of cake.

I balance another tray against my hip and enter the back room. Immediately, the bride makes a face.

“Finally.”