Chapter 17
SEVENTEEN
JESSICA
Michelle and Grayson’s house looks like a Pinterest board exploded inside a farmhouse.
I stand in the doorway, taking in the transformation.
The last time I was here—back when it was just Grayson’s place—the decor could be described as “aggressively bachelor.” Leather furniture, blank walls, a television the size of a small car, and absolutely nothing that suggested a human with feelings lived here.
Now there are throw pillows. So many of them.
“Is that pillow passive-aggressive?” I ask, pointing to one that reads Decaf is for Quitters.
“Grayson bought that one, actually,” Michelle says, pressing a glass of wine into my hand even though it’s barely eleven in the morning. “He thinks he’s funny.”
I count at least four more coffee-themed pillows as I make my way to the living room. Espresso yourself. But First, Coffee. I Like Big Cups, and I Cannot Lie. And my personal favorite: Coffee: Because Adulting is Hard.
“In my day,” Grandma Hensley announces from her spot on the sofa, “pillows didn’t come with snark.”
“Back then, you embroidered the snark yourself,” Hazel points out.
“That’s different. That was art.”
Fresh hydrangeas spill out of mason jars on every surface—the coffee table, the mantle, the side tables. Distressed white frames hold photos of Michelle and Grayson looking disgustingly happy. The whole place smells like fresh flowers and the cinnamon rolls Amber brought from The Salty Pearl.
It’s spotless. Not a speck of dust anywhere.
“Grayson insists on a cleaning service,” Michelle says, catching my look. “He says I work too hard to come home and clean.”
“That’s actually sweet.”
“Don’t tell him. He’ll get a big head.”
Jo is already on her second glass of wine. Mads is practically vibrating with energy, her engagement ring catching the light every time she moves her hands—which is constantly.
“Where’s the rooster?” I ask, suddenly aware of the silence. The last time I was here, Reggie provided constant commentary on everything from the weather to his personal grievances with modern society.
“Outside.” Michelle’s voice carries the weight of hard-won battles. “That was my first demand when I moved in. Sir Reginald Featherworth III could stay, but he was not living inside the house.”
“He has a coop now,” Hazel adds. “A posh one. Grayson built it himself.”
“It has heated floors,” Michelle mutters. “For a chicken.”
“He’s a rooster,” Grandma Hensley corrects. “There’s a difference.”
“The difference is, roosters are louder and angrier, which describes Reggie perfectly.”
I settle into an armchair that’s approximately eight thousand times more comfortable than it looks. The wine is good. The cinnamon roll Amber hands me is better. For about ninety seconds, I let myself believe this is just a normal brunch with friends.
Then Mads leans forward with this intense look.
“So,” she says. “Scott.”
“No.”
“Jessica—”
“We’re not doing this.”
“We absolutely are.” Jo waves her wine glass for emphasis. “You’ve been weird for weeks. Caroline’s been keeping a tally of your secret identity romance recommendations. Mrs. Sanders called Michelle three times yesterday to report on your ‘emotional state.’”
“Mrs. Sanders needs a hobby.”
“You are her hobby,” Amber says. “You and Scott. She’s invested.”
“The whole town is,” Hazel adds gently. “You two have been circling each other for months, and now that everything’s out in the open—”
“It’s not out in the open. Nothing is happening. I’m fine.”
Grandma Hensley pulls out a cocktail napkin and a pen and draws a short line. “That’s one.”
“What are you doing?”
“Keeping count. Every time you say ‘I’m fine’ when you’re clearly not fine, I make a mark.” She waves the napkin. “I predict double digits by the time we’re done here.”
“I’m not—”
“Two,” she says, making another mark before I even finish the sentence.
“I didn’t say it!”
“You were about to.”
Michelle refills my wine glass. “Just let it happen, Jess. Resistance is futile.”
“This is an ambush.”
“More like friends helping each other,” Mads corrects.
“Ambushes are hostile. We’re coming from love.
” She reaches over and squeezes my hand.
“We want you to be happy. And we’ve all watched you be miserable for weeks while the man you’re mad at fixes your building and sends you polite text messages and waits for you to stop punishing him. ”
“I’m not punishing him.”
“You called him ‘Mr. Avery’ at the committee meeting,” Jo says. “In front of everyone. That’s punishment.”
“I’m just being respectful and professional.”
“You’re disguising punishment as professionalism, which is honestly worse.”
I open my mouth to argue, but a sound erupts from outside that can only be described as righteous fury filtered through a megaphone. Everyone turns toward the back window.
Reggie is standing on the windowsill.
He’s enormous—easily the biggest rooster I’ve ever seen—with iridescent feathers that shimmer green and black in the sunlight. His comb flops dramatically to one side. One beady eye is fixed directly on me, head tilted, as if he’s sized me up and found me lacking.
He crows again, louder and more pointed.
“Even the rooster thinks you’re being ridiculous,” Grandma Hensley says.
“He has a viewpoint on everything.” Michelle sighs. “Urban development, kitchen appliances, and relationship drama. If he could talk, he’d have a podcast.”
Reggie struts along the windowsill, pausing to crow once more—this time at Mads, who waves at him cheerfully.
“Hi, Reggie! You look very handsome today!”
He puffs up his chest, apparently satisfied with the compliment, and hops down out of sight.
“He responds well to flattery,” Grayson’s voice says from the kitchen doorway. “Unlike some people I could name.”
I hadn’t realized he was home. He’s leaning against the doorframe, coffee mug in hand, watching the proceedings with barely concealed amusement.
“This is a private meeting,” I tell him. “No men allowed.”
“It’s my house.”
“Then go to the garage or something.”
“The garage is where I hide from book club drama. You’ve invaded my space.” He takes a sip of coffee. “Besides, I’m essential to the plan.”
“What plan?”
The room goes quiet. The specific brand that means everyone knows something I don’t.
Michelle sets down her wine glass. “Jessica.”
“What plan, Michelle?”
“We love you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
The doorbell rings.
My stomach drops.
“Michelle. What plan?”
“Just remember that everything we do, we do because we care.” She’s already moving toward the door. “And because you two are driving the entire town insane with your stubbornness.”
“Who’s at the door?”
But I already know before Michelle opens it and I hear his voice, confused and concerned:
“Grayson texted me. He said there was an emergency?”
Scott steps into the living room and stops dead.
We stare at each other.
He’s wearing jeans again. A soft gray henley that does unfair things to his shoulders. His hair is slightly disheveled, like he rushed over here. His gaze finds mine and holds, and for a second, neither of us breathes.
“What’s going on?” he asks slowly, looking from me to the assembled book club to Grayson, who has materialized beside Michelle with a set of car keys.
“You two are going on a date,” Amber announces.
“What?” we say in unison.
“A date.” Mads is beaming. “We planned it for you. Because you’re both disasters who can’t figure this out on your own.”
“This is insane,” I manage. “You can’t just—”
“We can and we are.” Jo stands up and starts gathering my things—my purse, my jacket, my dignity. “You’ve had weeks to work this out yourselves, and instead, you’ve been playing the world’s most frustrating game of emotional chicken.”
“I’m not going anywhere with—”
“Jessica.” Grandma Hensley’s voice cuts through my protest. “You can go willingly, or I can call Mrs. Sanders and have the entire town gathered on the boardwalk to watch by sundown. Your choice.”
I look at Scott. He looks at me. We both look at the assembled intervention squad, who are wearing matching expressions of determination.
“Where exactly would we be going?” Scott asks carefully.
“Your place.” Grayson tosses him the keys. “The cottage. Caroline and I handled the setup this morning.”
“Setup?”
“Don’t worry about it.” Michelle is physically steering me toward the door. “Amber handled the food and Caroline the ambiance. All you have to do is show up and actually talk to each other like adults.”
“This is kidnapping,” I protest weakly.
“It’s aggressive friendship.” Mads gives me a little push. “There’s a difference.”
“I’m not dressed for a date!”
“You look fine.”
“I’m wearing yoga pants!”
“Yoga pants are the sweatpants of the modern era,” Grandma Hensley says. “Perfectly acceptable for informal forced romantic encounters.”
We’re at the door now. Outside. On the porch. The book club is lined up in the doorway like they’re seeing us off to prom.
“Her phone stays here,” Hazel says, plucking it from my hand before I can protest. “His too. No distractions.”
“You can’t take my phone—”
“We can and we did.” Michelle is unmoved. “You’ll get them back tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!”
“Or tonight, if you figure your stuff out quickly.” She grins.
Scott is standing beside me on the porch, looking as shellshocked as I feel. Our gazes meet again.
“I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “I didn’t know they were planning this.”
“Neither did I.”
Grayson appears with one final instruction. “The address is in your GPS, Scott. Don’t come back until you’ve actually talked. Michelle’s orders.”
“Since when do I take orders from—”
The door closes in our faces.
We stand there for a moment, side by side on the porch, listening to the muffled sounds of celebration from inside. Someone—probably Mads—is actually cheering.
Reggie crows from somewhere around the back of the house. Even he sounds triumphant.
“So,” Scott says.
“So.”
He gestures toward his car. “I guess we’re going on a date.”
“I guess we are.”
We walk toward the car in silence. He opens my door. He probably did it automatically like it was ingrained. I slide in without thinking about it. He rounds to the driver’s side, starts the engine, pulls up something on the GPS.
The route populates. Somewhere outside of town, down roads I don’t recognize.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
Scott is quiet for a moment. His hands tighten on the steering wheel, then relax.
“Somewhere I should have taken you a long time ago,” he says. “If I hadn’t been too scared to show you who I really am.”
He pulls out of the driveway.
I have no phone, no escape route, and no idea what’s waiting at the end of this drive.
For the first time in weeks, I’m not sure I want one.