Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111742 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 559(@200wpm)___ 447(@250wpm)___ 372(@300wpm)
And then there’s our personalities. While Paisley is a bitch to me, to everyone else, she’s charming, and people fall in love with her in seconds. I’m an odd mix of quiet mouse and filter-less mouth, always rambling to myself but never really saying much, not that it matters because people don’t listen to me anyway. Then again, my hope and dream is to be as invisible as possible so I don’t become someone else’s target the way I was Paisley’s for all my life.
Not that I’m holding grudges, exactly, but I’m also not looking forward to seeing certain family members. Like the bride. Unless she’s tripping down the aisle, ripping her dress, and tearfully admitting that she doesn’t deserve Max, her fiancé.
Okay, I don’t want that to happen. Not really. Much.
I wish I could skip the wedding, but that would kick off a whole new spin-off series of family drama, so slapping on a fake smile (closed lips, of course—damned chip), attending, suffering through, and scurrying away before anyone deigns to look my way is my best option. My only option.
“I know, I shouldn’t be like that about my family, but you don’t know them like I do,” I tell Mrs. Michaelson, imagining her maternal disappointment in me. But she doesn’t have flashbacks of peeing herself at sleepovers because someone stuck her hand in warm water. I do. And I wasn’t a kid. I was fifteen, which made it so much worse. Especially when the teasing turned from ‘ew, did you wet the bed?’ to ‘maybe she’s a squirter’ and jokes about my ‘wet dreams’, and I didn’t know what that meant, which led to a whole new round of taunts. Yeah, super funny.
So yeah, excuse me if I’m dreading seeing Paisley all dolled up, everyone fawning over her and her new hubby, and my family asking whether I have any prospects. And then laughing at the very idea.
Shit. I’m holding grudges.
They’re warranted, though. I think. Probably.
On the bright side, at least I have a date for the wedding. I can’t imagine what Paisley would say if I showed up to her wedding solo. I’m sure it’d be lots of ‘poor, pitiful, Plainy Janey’ couched as actual concern and sorrow while she not-so-subtly grinned at my misfortune and laughed behind my back. Or straight to my face.
Checking my watch, I realize how late it’s gotten. “Oops, I’ve gotta go. Mason’ll be taking over for the evening shift,” I say, changing the name on the whiteboard Mrs. Michaelson has never looked at. “Oh, and don’t forget to give Mason a hard time about his porn-stache. He needs to grow his beard back out, STAT,” I stage whisper to the woman.
“Hey!” Mason complains from the door, where he’s peeking around the corner. “I know your true issue with my ‘stache. You’re lusting after the Chris Evans villain-era look.” He wipes his hand over his mouth, needlessly and dramatically smoothing the wiry hair down and then grinning as his hand transforms into a finger gun. “Oh, yeah,” he rumbles, nodding as if that show was the epitome of sexy-cool.
Mason is my best friend at work, and beyond, too. He’s a great guy, and I’ve worked with him for years at the care center, helping him go from newbie nurse to confident caregiver. In return, he’s my personal hype guy, cheering me on, boosting me up, and telling everyone else at the center ‘move, bitch’ when my polite and too-quiet ‘pardon me’ isn’t enough. Along the way, we’ve gotten to know each other, and he’s one of the few people I feel comfortable joking around with.
I knew he was listening, which is the entire reason I mentioned his facial hair, so I grin back. “I’m right and you know it. Your chinny-chin-chin hairs are epic, and you’ve proclaimed an annoyingly high number of times that the ladies love your beard,” I tease. “Hell, we joked about taking a cue from LL Cool J and calling you LL Hairy M, but that has a completely different vibe, so . . . ew.”
His natural confidence melts, and he ducks his nearly naked chin with a shy shrug that is the antithesis of his usual swagger. “Greta wasn’t a fan.”
“Then we’re not a fan of Greta,” I counter with a raised brow and a fire I wouldn’t typically express, but Mason’s situation calls for it. When he doesn’t seem any surer, I propose, “If you told her that you prefer blondes, with even the barest hint of a suggestion that she color her hair, she would rightfully burn you in effigy. And all of womenkind, myself included, would cheer her on and offer a lighter. Why should your beard be any different? If you like it, rock it.”
Ever heard the expression, Those who can, do. Those who can’t, teach? Yeah, I’m teaching hard right now because Mason reminds me, “Aren’t you the same girl who got a professional blow-out that took three whole hours and several hundred dollars because Henry thought your hair should look less wild for the company Christmas party?”