That Secret Crush (Getting Lucky #3)(32)

I roll my eyes. “You sound like an eighty-year-old woman.”

“I’m okay with that.” She loops her arm in mine and leans her head on my shoulder. It feels good, like family, and that’s exactly what she is.



Griffin: You fucking told her?????

Rogan: Ooo, told who what?

Brig: Must be bad if Griffin used five question marks. Don’t you know, dude, one is sufficient. Text messaging has truly butchered the English language.

Reid: I’m not even sorry.

Griffin: You sold me out for CANDLES. What the fuck, man?

Rogan: **Leans in**

Brig: **Salivates**

Jen: Oh damn **cups ear**

Brig: Tell us, tell us what you did.

Griffin: He told Ren about the eggplant story in exchange for candles.

Reid: For the record, her idea, not mine.

Rogan: Oh damn.

Brig: Is that when you puked on the Ferris wheel?

Jen: Onto the mayor?

Griffin: That’s the one. I was doing pretty damn well avoiding that story until Reid.

Reid: I don’t have any regrets. I got some candles and it serves you right for opening your mouth to Ren about Eve. Let this be a reminder to all of you, I do not hold back.

Rogan: Sooo, if I told Harper, what would happen to me?

Brig: I vote kick him in the crotch. Kick him in the crotch!

Jen: ^^ I second that.

Griffin: It’s only fair.

Rogan: Shut the fuck up, Griffin, you don’t get a say.

Griffin: Eggplant story. He told my girlfriend the eggplant story.

Rogan: It could have been way worse.

Griffin: How so? Now she probably thinks of me as the guy who threw up on a Ferris wheel . . . when it wasn’t even moving.

Reid: Whining doesn’t look pretty on you, Griff.

Brig: Doesn’t go well with your complexion.

Jen: You guys should see his face right now, bright red.

Rogan: Are his nostrils flared too?

Reid: Yes, can we get a nostril check?

Brig: Dying to know about the nostrils.

Jen: Nostrils are flared, I repeat, nostrils are flared. And that vein near his temple is throbbing.

Griffin: I hope you all enjoy hell together.

Reid: Let this serve as a reminder to all of you: don’t fuck with me.





CHAPTER TEN





EVE


“I can’t believe you actually returned my call,” says Avery, one of my best friends from high school, her voice filtering through my phone. “Have you become a celebrity in Port Snow without telling me? Are you so inundated with autograph requests and appearances at Snow Roast that you couldn’t possibly call your best friend back?” I can’t help but smile. Typical Avery. I miss one phone call, and she acts like I never talk to her.

Walking down the hill where the Lighthouse Inn is situated, and toward Main Street, I secure my earbuds. Snow is piled up on the edges of the sidewalk, and the roads are slick with a fresh flurry from this morning. “Yup, I’m the queen of Port Snow. They have me living up in the mayor’s house, and I have my own assistant who brings me afternoon tea every day. It’s a grand life.”

“You bitch, and you didn’t tell me?”

We both laugh. “What I wouldn’t give for an assistant who brings me afternoon tea every day. That would be the life,” she says wistfully.

“How is the job, by the way? Loving it or hating it?”

Five years ago Avery moved from Port Snow to New York City to pursue her acting career. She was a huge theater geek growing up, was the lead in every Port Snow play, and even dabbled in some commercials here and there when she had a chance. But she didn’t become completely serious until she finally dropped out of community college and fled to the city. Her parents were furious, and there was a moment, right around when my dad died, when she tried to toss away her dream, but I stopped her from calling it quits and coming home. She’s meant to act.

But she hasn’t had her big break yet, so her new job consists of singing show tunes and waitressing at a kitschy cabaret restaurant in Manhattan, where the special every night is a house-made meatloaf with cheesy mashed potatoes.

“Hating it,” she groans. “Because I have blonde hair, my costume consists of lederhosen made from old drapes, and I spend every night singing songs from The Sound of Music. I mean, I should be honored, but every time I break into ‘Do-Re-Mi,’ I truly want to pistol-whip my own face.”

A loud laugh rumbles up and out of my throat. “Oh, please send a picture. I really want to see you in that outfit.”

“There will be no photographic evidence of this job. It’s paying the bills until I hear back about a big audition I just had.”

“Oooh, tell me about it.”

“It’s for a movie.”

“What? Seriously? What kind?”

“Romantic comedy, of course. You know this all-American girl wasn’t born for anything else.” It’s true—she’s the perfect lead for any romantic comedy. Bubbly, sweet, energetic. She reminds me a lot of Reese Witherspoon.

“That’s so exciting! How did the audition go?”

“Pretty well, I think. I mean, I’m trying not to get super excited about it, but I left feeling good. I’m hoping for a callback in the next few days.”