Good Boy (WAGs #1)(11)

“Forget it,” I blurt out, ducking my head as I quickly start folding again. “Don’t answer that. That was a dumb question. I don’t know why I was even considering—”

A firm hand clamps over mine, stilling my nervous movements. “Oh hush, baby-cakes. You just caught me by surprise. I think you’d make a fabulous nurse.”

I bite my lip and meet his eyes. “Really?”

“Absolutely. Why? You thinking of applying to nursing school?”

After another beat of hesitation, I offer a jerky nod. “I started looking into it after Jamie was in the hospital this spring,” I confess. “I told you about the nurse that was taking care of him, right? Bertha? Well, I had coffee with her in the hospital cafeteria a couple of times when I was in Toronto, and she kind of gave me a whole rundown of the process.”

“Wow. So this isn’t just a random thing. You’re really considering it.” Dyson releases my hand and resumes his napkin folding. “Where were you thinking of applying? San Francisco?”

I shake my head. “I’m looking everywhere. You won’t believe how expensive nursing programs are now.”

He snorts. “Oh, I’d believe it. You think the student-loan fairy just floated down from the money tree and paid off my debts? Think again, sweetie pie. My bank account hates me. It’s hard to look this good when you’re this broke.”

I can’t help but laugh. He really is one of the best-dressed, most fashion-conscious guys I know. But I had no idea he was still buried under a mountain of loans.

I am, too, but at least all the money I owe isn’t to the government. My parents are the ones who fronted my college tuition. And who paid for the start-up costs of my failed jewelry business. And for the business cards for this new event-planning venture. There’s no deadline for me to pay them back, but every time I accept another handout from them, it chips away at another piece of my independence.

Not to mention my self-esteem.

Fuck. No wonder my family thinks I’m a screw-up. I am a screw-up. My bachelor’s degree in Art History was supposed to set me free, but it just ended up being an albatross around my neck. It didn’t open a single door for me, didn’t get me a single job offer. A position at a museum or in academia now requires more than a measly bachelor’s degree. You need a master’s or a PhD, and I can’t exactly afford to go back to school for another hundred years.

Besides, lately I’ve been wondering if I even belong in a creative field. I’ve tried and failed at so much shit, but this nursing thing… It feels right. When I think about doing it, it’s like my entire being just…centers. This is the first time I’ve ever felt that way.

“Did you consider any Canadian schools?” Dyson asks.

“No, why?”

“They’re cheaper. I didn’t know that when I was applying, but I work with some nurses who studied in Vancouver to save money.”

I make a mental note to investigate.

“And listen,” he says gruffly, “if you’re really serious about nursing, then I’m more than happy to sit down with you and tell you all about it. The good, the bad and the disgusting bedpans.”

I giggle.

“Seriously, babe, this job can be gross sometimes. But it’s super-duper rewarding, too. It’s the best decision I ever—oh sweet Jesus of Nazareth, who is that? And what are those?”

My head swivels to the other side of the tent, and I immediately let out a strangled shriek.

Oh hell no.





4 We’re Number One. Or Two





Blake


Cheezus. This is going to be a nice party. As I carry two giant balloon bouquets down the sloping lawn, I like what I see. There’s a long line of tables for the buffet, ensuring good access to the chow later. And some dudes in white shirts and black vests are setting up what could only be a generous bar.

“Check it out,” I say to Granny Canning. “They’re putting down a dance floor right on the lawn.”

“I’ll bet you like to boogie.” She gives me a wobbly smile. “I’m saving a dance for you, hot stuff.”

“Awesome. You stay cool, GrannCann.” I lead her over to a nice wicker chair facing the lawn. “I gotta deliver these babies.”

“What about my luggage?” she asks. “I think I left it in your car.” She covers her mouth to smooth over a little belch.

“I’ll take care of it. Don’t you worry.”

“Thank you, honeybuns!” she calls as I walk away.

The babes. They all dig me.

“BLAKE RILEY!”

A shriek cuts through the air, its pitch as high as a dog whistle. “Whassup, J-Babe! I got your balloons and your grandma. What’s next on my list?”

She marches across the grass on those long legs, her soft hair bouncing on beautifully tanned shoulders. Jessica Canning is a vision of sexiness in her sleeveless dress and perfectly pink lips.

Her face is a little red, for some reason. But hey, nobody’s perfect.

“What the hell are those?” She points up into the air.

I look, too. “You know, now that you mention it, that cloud does kinda resemble a camel.”

“No, those!” She points nearer to my head.