It sounds like banging—no, not the sexual kind of banging; I’m talking about the sound of someone knocking on a door.
Obnoxious and annoying so early in the morning.
What time even is it?
Early—my alarm hasn’t gone off yet and that’s set for eight.
I suck in the saliva that’s dripping down the side of my mouth and crack an eye open, the sun blinding me with its beaming rays of light.
Ugh. Too soon, TOO SOON.
I throw an arm over my eyes. Where is that damn eye mask when you need it?
Knock-knock.
Ding, dong. Ding.
Dong.
That’s weird. Now it sounds like the knocking and doorbell are coming from inside my place.
I roll to the side, eyes cracking to stare at the blank, white wall. I really need to hang up some artwork—so blah. So boring.
My phone buzzes.
Grabbling for the nightstand without having to roll toward it, I feebly feel around, fingers making contact with my cell, blurry eyes coming into focus.
Hollis.
I swipe to answer, pretending I’ve been awake for hours. “Hey!”
“Let us in.”
“Let you in?” I repeat, confused.
“We’re outside. No worries—I have coffee and donuts.”
Outside. Coffee. Donuts.
Knocking.
“Oh shit, oh shit.” I throw back my covers, kicking them off. “Shit, what time is it?”
Hollis laughs. “Don’t worry, we just got here. We’ll sit on the steps and eat your crullers while you get dressed. Take your time.”
I love crullers—they are my all-time favorite donut! “Don’t you dare!” I threaten.
“Mmm mmm mmm,” my cousin taunts before hanging up. “Yummy yummy.”
I palm the phone and glance at the time.
8:05
My alarm never went off! Or…I never set it?
Does not matter—I’ve got to hurry!
Get dressed. Brush my teeth. Brush my hair! Oh god, there’s no time for that.
I’m so embarrassed—not that my cousin is the epitome of being on time, but because they’re here to help and I’m still in bed. Instead of crawling back under the covers, I want to crawl under a rock.
I stumble to the closet, the boxes of clothes still mostly packed away, but at least I know what’s in them. That one is jeans, that one is leggings and sweatshirts, and that one is…
That one…
Oh my god WHO CARES you are wasting time!
I pop open the one with leggings inside, snatching up the first pair I find on top; they’re brightly colored, covered in pops of pink, periwinkle, and sage green, a kaleidoscope to cheer me up when I can barely focus.
On goes a tank top—oops, but first a bra—a neon pink bro tank with my old grocery store’s pig logo and Piggy Wiggly, Shop the Pig! tagline emblazoned on the front. I won it during a raffle fundraiser and why have I never thrown it out?
The disaster of an ensemble will have to do; there are people waiting on my front stoop outside who undoubtedly now think I’m a rude, lazy deadbeat, and I don’t have time to choose a semi-decent outfit and run a brush through my hair.
I dash to the front door, throwing it open to reveal two familiar faces and one…
“Chandler,” my cousin says by way of introduction, box of donuts in her arms. “This is my future brother-in-law, Tripp—he’s the only other person we knew with a truck. I figured you would need two.”
Um.
Holy shit. It’s the lumberjack from Axe to Grind.
“Your friend Harding has a truck,” the brother grumbles. “I could have used the extra sleep.”
“You’re the best man,” my cousin’s fiancé, Trace, reminds his brother, shouldering his way past me, into my new place. “You don’t need extra sleep—you need a personality adjustment. Consider this community service.” He turns to me, setting a tape measure down on the table in my entry. “Chandler, meet the family Grinch.”
I sink my eyes into Buzz Wallace’s brother; I’ve heard about him, know he’s a professional football player and Buzz’s oldest sibling. Lives not too far away, hangs around my cousin’s house a lot now that she’s living with her fiancé. His brother is always there, it seems, especially when she makes a home-cooked meal.
They have a tightknit family, tighter than ours ever was, which is part of the Wallace appeal. Hollis craves that—her parents are cold, distant socialites, out for their own best interests. It makes sense that she would gravitate toward a family that’s constantly in each other’s business.
Her fiancé hates it. She loves it.
And oh.
My.
God.
Tripp Wallace is…he’s…
He…
I blush, fumbling in the doorway, standing like an idiot in my loud printed leggings and pig tank top and bare feet, the hair I haven’t brushed yet thrown into a messy bun.
My stomach does a clenching thing while my eyes hit the floor, inspecting the lavender nail polish that didn’t match my bachelorette dress last night.
When he brushes past me to get into the house, I catch a whiff of him: freshly showered and masculine, like he was soaked in men’s Bath & Body Works products. Tall. Broad. Tan. A masculine manly man. So manish it’s as if he just cut the lawn outside his house with his own bare hands—then chopped a truckload of wood and stacked it with his pinky finger, all before downing a dozen raw eggs for breakfast and washing them down with Powerade.
He doesn’t say hello.
Okay then…
I close the door behind everyone and inhale a deep breath, letting it out when I catch sight of my reflection in the mirror that was left behind in the foyer.
Shit—no wonder he didn’t glance twice at me. I’m a disaster!
I groan, calling out to the small group congregating in my kitchen. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be right there, I just have to…” I let my voice trail off, catching my cousin’s eye as I beeline down the hall toward my bedroom, serious panic setting in.
Shit, shit, shit.
You can’t change your clothes, but you can do something with your hair. And brush your teeth—if you change your clothes, they’re going to know.
Maybe they won’t notice if I change outfits? Throw on something more put together, as if I didn’t stumble into these leggings five minutes ago after they beat the door down.
Who cares what you’re wearing—this is a moving day, not a beauty contest.
One I wouldn’t win.
Sighing, I stand with a comb in my hand, parting my hair down the middle so I can throw it into two French braids, the task going quickly now that my dark hair has grown out well past my shoulders.
I secure the end with an elastic and plait the second row.
Brush my teeth and splashing cold water on my face are my only beauty concessions as I scowl at the smattering of freckles that have somehow recently materialized across my nose.
There is nothing sexy or alluring about me; the young woman staring back at me might have a master’s degree and know all kinds of neat shit, but she has no idea how to attract a grown man.
Grown man? Tripp Wallace can’t be more than thirty years old.
Still—professional athletes date supermodels and actresses and singers.