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“I’ll see you at work tomorrow?” Wren asks when we’re alone. “Assuming I’m not fired for going on extended leave without asking permission?”
“You’re not fired,” I rumble.
“Good,” she says. “I’m looking forward to getting back to work. I’ve missed the other nurses and our patients and all those sweet new babies. Should I call Kinsey and let her know I’ll be stepping back in as head nurse again? Or would you rather take care of that?”
“I’ll take care of it,” I say. “But let’s hold on the transition until next week. We only have three days in the office this week. We’re taking a long weekend to attend a conference on collaborative care.”
Wren’s brows shoot up. “The one I wanted to go to last year that you said wouldn’t help us much, anyway, since we already worked so well as a team?”
“Since you’ve been gone, I’ve seen that there’s possibly room for improvement when it comes to communication between myself and the rest of the staff,” I say. “And it’s in Excelsior this year, near Minneapolis, so we’ll be able to get there in a couple hours’ drive. You’re welcome to attend if you don’t already have plans for the weekend.”
“I’d love to,” she says, before adding in a more guarded tone, “but you’re right, I should check my calendar. I can let you know by Tuesday. Does that work?”
“That’s fine,” I say, but nothing is fine.
Not the fact that Wren’s going to the ball with my brother or that Kyle will be the one sleeping over at her house tonight.
And the fact that I leave the park an hour later with Keanu Reeves in a kennel? That’s really not fine, a fact Keanu proves by peeing in my shoes as soon as I take them off inside the door.
“Fuck,” I say, as the tiny monster finishes his business and bounces away to inspect his new domain.
Nothing is going the way I hoped, and I only have three weeks to turn them around before Wren is at the ball with Christian, falling under his blue-eyed, tattooed, bad-boy-who-owns-a-bike-repair-shop-but-also-loves-and-nurtures-animals spell.
I’ll have to do some serious thinking and perhaps call for backup.
But first, I have to lock every pair of yet-to-be-soiled shoes in my closet where Keanu Reeves can’t find them.
Chapter Seven
WREN
Back home, I spend the afternoon unpacking, moving my clothes into my new room, and trying not to think too much about the fact that Barrett asked me to the ball.
It doesn’t mean anything.
It doesn’t mean he missed me or regrets taking me for granted. If that were true, he would have made contact sometime in the past three months. I blocked his cell, but not his email address or the landline at work. He could have reached out any time, but he didn’t. He didn’t so much as like one of my shots of the Thai temples or white sand beaches on social media.
He made it clear with his silence that he’s still the same Barrett, the one who isn’t interested in getting to know me or meeting my needs. It’s best if I forget I ever saw him and concentrate on getting my house in order.
With Kyle sleeping in a giant dog bed by her human bed, it makes sense for Starling to take the master and for me to move into the guest room. I’m also seven inches shorter than my newly graduated little sis, and I figured she would appreciate the larger bed after years of sleeping in cramped college dorm rooms.
I’ll be just fine here, in the twin bed by the wall with the view of the backyard and the fruit trees blooming by the fence. It’s not like I need a ton of space or have any gentlemen callers spending the night on a regular basis.
At this rate you never will. You’re never going to be able to be romantic with Christian. Not when you already slept with his brother.
“Yeah, well, if I refused to date every McGuire in town, I’d be down to a very short list of single men,” I mutter aloud as I finish hanging the last of my summer dresses in the smaller, guest-room closet.
Another reason I’m better suited to this space—my work clothes are scrubs that fold up and easily fit in a drawer or two, while Starling needs a variety of business casual for her part-time job at the bank and fundraising side-hustles.
Fine, date a cousin, then, the inner voice continues to nag, but not his brother. That’s too weird. Can you imagine sitting down to Thanksgiving dinner with them and knowing you banged two of Fran’s sons?
“Yeah, well, if she hadn’t had so many kids, it wouldn’t be a problem,” I shoot back, jumping half a foot into the air when Starling asks, “Are you on the phone?” from the doorway.
