Chapter 12
Step away from the lady’s underwear
Zoey
I was the hungover monster hurtling toward Pennsylvania with the top down and a hoodie laced around my face so tight I could barely see because the Miata’s roof latch was broken.
Between no working roof and the incessant rattle in the door panel that was worse at highway speeds, I was starting to think I’d made a mistake in my choice of vehicle.
On the last pee break, I’d pulled out a trick from Hazel’s old bike messenger days and wrapped my hands in plastic bags to keep them warm since all my gloves were packed in a box somewhere.
I had seven pairs. Which was far too many pairs of gloves.
I had far too many of everything. Which had led me to my new plan.
Earl Wiggens was out. That farty old dinosaur was one interview away from getting canceled anyway.
So I, Zoey Moody, longtime fashionista, was going to liquidate my wardrobe to save my bottom line.
Much as it pained me, if I was going to survive financially, I was going to have to say goodbye to some of my less practical pieces.
I gagged.
My new plan made me a little bit nauseous. But a little poverty was still better than dealing with the Wiggenses of the world on a daily basis.
A gust of April wind rocked my tiny car and ruffled my plastic bag mittens. I was probably leaving a comical trail of pretty bras and toiletries across rural Pennsylvania as they blew out of the boxes that I’d run out of tape for. Hopefully the moving truck behind me was slightly more secure.
This was such a me situation it was almost laughable. I stuffed an ice-cold McMuffin into my mouth. I got a little bit of plastic bag with it but managed to spit out most of it. I didn’t know if half-frozen grease was as effective in curing a hangover as hot, fresh grease was, but I was desperate.
Once again, I’d failed to stick to the plan.
I’d followed Navya’s advice and stayed through her acceptance speech, during which she—thankfully—did not mention her vodka shower.
I’d certainly had more than my fair share of eyes on me but found my spirits buoyed by a small but mighty phalanx of publishing industry insiders who all agreed that Jim was a tool who deserved a schnoz full of alcohol.
I drank too much, cheered too loudly, and then organized an impromptu after-party before crawling home at 2 a.m.
Home. I winced as another strong spring gust rocked the Miata.
I no longer had a home. For the first time in my entire life, I didn’t have a Manhattan address. And after last night, I was scared down to the tips of my fuzzy socks that this was the beginning of the end. Jim’s words had been echoing in my head since last night, and I couldn’t shake them.
Would Hazel be better off without me? Would a better, more “professional” agent be able to take her places I couldn’t? I hated that the worm might have a point.
I was wallowing so deep in what-ifs that I missed the exit to Story Lake and had to double back.
“Get yourself together for once, Zoey,” I muttered to myself.
The van had been paying attention and made the exit, so now I was going to have to come up with an excuse or confess that I was too hungover and wallowing in self-pity to follow the GPS’s directions.
Finally, the town limits came into view. I slowed to a crawl when I passed the welcome sign. Last summer, Hazel and I had made a spectacular entrance to Story Lake by plowing into the sign thanks to our first run-in with Goose. As if triggered by the memory, a shadow fell over me in the open car.
I shook my plastic-bagged fist at the eagle as he arched lazily overhead. “Don’t even think about it, Goose!”
The feathery jerk turned around and made another pass directly over my head.
At least he didn’t have any fish or snakes in his talons this time.
I still had concerns about the capabilities of his back end.
Eagle shit was probably toxic or something.
To be on the safe side, I accelerated out from under the bird and headed into town.
I found the moving van parked in front of my new temporary lodgings with the lift gate folded down and the door rolled up.
I took a fortifying swig of sports drink and a deep breath. It was going to be a long-ass day made all the worse by the inconvenient hangover. Maybe I could just assemble the bed and go to sleep for the next fourteen hours? I’d unpack next week. Or next month.
“You ready for this?” the driver asked with a thick Queens accent.
“No. But I have no choice.”
I got out of the car and brushed McMuffin chunks off the front of my sweatshirt.
“Surprise!” shouted someone with no empathy for the hungover.
It took me almost a full ten dizzying seconds to realize it was Hazel, accompanied by all the Bishop brothers. They were hanging out of the apartment windows on the second floor. My apartment windows. Between them, Hazel had unfurled a Welcome Home banner.
“The hell happened to you?” Cam demanded. “You look like shit.”
Gage smirked, then slapped his brother in the back of the head as I hastily untied my hood and shoved it down. I could feel my hair defying gravity as it took on a life of its own.
“Leave her alone, Mr. Sensitivity,” Gage said.
“What are you guys doing here?” I rasped, trying to prevent my own voice from snapping my head off my neck.
“We’re helping you move in,” Hazel yelled back sunnily.
“And apparently fixing whatever’s wrong with your car roof,” Gage added.
“On it,” Levi volunteered and disappeared from the window.
“Get on up here. There’s food and coffee,” Gage said.
I was so grateful and relieved and hungover I almost started crying on the spot.
“That your boyfriend?” asked the impressively biceped female mover.
“That’s my landlord.”
“Damn, girl. Nice work. My landlord looks like Bigfoot.”
“Need a hand?” Gage asked, poking his head into the bedroom.
My surprise moving crew was hard at work putting things to rights in the living room and kitchen while the movers unloaded the rest of my belongings.
Nana was overseeing the chaos by completing a lap of the apartment every two minutes.
Gage had offered to leave the dog in his office downstairs.
It was nice that he’d offer, but I was too hungover to be afraid of the golden retriever today.
While Nana was hairy and slobbery, she was also soft and pretty and had this way of making me feel like she was really happy to see me. Plus, there was absolutely nothing going on inside her noggin, so I didn’t need to feel threatened by her.
I was trying valiantly in my hungover state to hook the bed rail into the headboard but had only succeeded in smacking the freshly painted drywall…twice.
“I could use, like, six of them,” I said, collapsing in a sweaty, headachy mess on the carpet to stare at the ceiling. It was a nice room with a quiet blue on the walls and fresh white trim. The two windows faced north and overlooked town.
“Found these in the Kitchen and Maybe Some Bathroom Stuff box,” he said, holding up a baggie of bolts labeled Bed Hardware. “Thought you might need them.”
“Ugh. Thank God. I was starting to think I left them somewhere on the highway.”
Gage nudged me aside and competently slid all the tabs into all the slots, then got to work on the mattress supports. “You’re lookin’ a little under the weather,” he observed.
“I’m hungover as hell is what I am. Apparently every time I start a new chapter in this town, I have to do it with a hangover.”
“One last hurrah in the city?”
“More like one last catastrophic mistake. I threw a drink in Hazel’s ex’s face in front of the entire New York publishing industry last night.”
“He’s lucky you didn’t throw a punch. His nose probably still isn’t healed from Cam.”
“I think I did more damage to myself than him. He got under my skin like he always does, and I failed to control myself like I always do.”
Gage gave one of those smirky smiles as he tightened one of the bolts with a wrench that I assumed he’d brought with him.
I watched him move on to the next bolt. “It must be nice to be handy and have tools and know how to fix things,” I observed.
“I like to be prepared,” he said, stepping out of the bed slats. “Feel up to moving the mattress with me?”
It was my turn to smirk. “If any other guy said that to me…”
“Yeah, yeah. Come on,” he said, pulling me to my feet. “If you help me with the mattress, I’ll close the door and tell everyone you’re unpacking ‘lady things’ so you can grab a quick catnap.”
“Deal,” I said.
I helped him muscle the mattress into place and immediately face-planted on top of it.
“Do you think I’m bad for Hazel?” I asked, lifting my head only long enough to ask the question.
The mattress dipped, and then I was unceremoniously rolled onto my back. Gage sprawled out next to me, and we lay there staring up at the ceiling.
“Now what idiocy would have you asking that?”
“Jim the shit waffle said Hazel would be a lot further in her career if she didn’t have me holding her back. And I kind of can’t stop thinking about it.”
“Zoey, honey, you can’t listen to people like that.”
“That’s why I’m asking you. Am I bad for Hazel? Disco,” I added hastily.
He rolled on to his side and propped his head on his hand. His bicep bulged in a pleasant, manly way. “If you want the disco, I’ll give you the disco.”
I closed my eyes and braced myself. “Okay. I’m ready for the disco.”
When he didn’t say anything, I opened one eye and found him grinning at me. “You’re adorable.”
I wrinkled my nose even though my stomach swooped like it was on a roller coaster. “I’m well aware of my adorableness. What I don’t know is if I’m dragging my best friend down to my level instead of helping her live her dreams. Also, you have a nice smile.”