Page 9 of Best Friends for Never

He groans, which only makes me smirk. I love pushing his buttons entirely too much. “Get out of here before Iaccidentallycall the paint store andaccidentallyorder the wrong color for the walls again.”

I gasp. “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me.”

He has those darn eyebrows lifted high, and I know him well enough to understand that means only one thing—he’s serious.

“Fine, fine. I’ll stop,” I promise, retreating toward the door with my hands held up in concession. “But I’m bringing white wine tonight for dinner.”

“White?!” he calls as I open the door. “You know I like red with my lasagna!” he adds as I step through it.

“Parker! Parker! Dammit, Potty Parker, come back here!” he hollers as I let it close behind me, cackling the entire time.

He should know me well enough by this point to understand one thing—I’m serious.

I wish I could say I did the responsible thing when I got home—took a shower and changed for dinner at Axel and Mary’s place so I wouldn’t look like a complete mess. But I did neither.

Instead, I ignored the Christmas cards and tinsel that Pumpkin, my orange tabby, knocked off the mantel again and plopped down on my couch to snuggle with him.

That was my first mistake, because Iknowthis couch is my kryptonite.

The number of movies I’ve started on this hunk of junk? Hundreds.

The number of movies I’ve finished? Two and a half.

I always, always, always fall asleep anytime I lie down. I don’t know what it is, but this lumpy old thing becomes the most comfortable piece of furniture ever, and I drift off into sleep as if I’ve just finished a32k—or whatever those marathons are that those weirdos who actually enjoy running compete in.

It’s my couch’s fault that I’m racing around my small one-bedroom house like I am now, running late for something very important.

“Ugh, I’ll be so annoyed if Axel eventhinksabout eating my slice of lasagna, Pumpkin,” I say to my cat, who, admittedly, I talk to entirely too often.

I suppose that’s what happens when you live alone for so long. You start talking to your pets like they’re real people while telling everyone who will listen how lonely youaren’t.

I’m not lonely—not really. I have great friends and a booming renovation business,andI’m about to work on the project of my dreams. Who cares if I spend my nights alone or hang out with my cat? That’s not lonely. It’s just ...

Oh, heck. Who am I kidding? I am a little lonely, especially now that Axel has gone all family man. Sure, he still includes me in everything, and we’re just as close as ever, but I know he needs his own space.

I push the thoughts away, saving them for another time when I’m not running late.

I hop on one foot as I slide my lace-free shoe on the other, then grab my favorite flannel jacket, which I got for a measly three dollars at the thrift shop, toss my cross-body purse over my head, and make a beeline out the door.

I’m in such a hurry that I don’t even take the time to fully admire the beautiful summer we’re having. It’s mid-June, and the flowers are in full bloom. Borgen Avenue, the main street that goes through the small town of Emerald Grove, is lined with happy couples out on a stroll, and nearly every business has its door propped open to welcome evening guests for shopping or dinner.

It’s one of my favorite things about this town—how welcoming every little nook and cranny feels. Walking into one of the cozy, usually family-owned businesses is like being wrapped in a warm hug.

Sometimes, that warm hug is all you need to lift your spirits. Or at least, it’s allIneed.

I pass by my mom’s pottery shop and pause. She’s at the counter helping a customer, showing the old woman handspun vases that were just finished last week.

My mother glances over at the window as if on cue, sending me a soft smile.Thatfeels like a warm hug too.

I’ll never know how she’s always had that superpower. I just know I’ll never tire of it, because my mother is the greatest mom in the world. Life’s thrown a lot at her—from losing her own mother early to going on tour with her band at nineteen, then falling in love with a guitar player who, as it turned out, wasn’t cut out for small-town living and left her a single mother to an eight-year-old.

She’s been through the wringer, but she’s strong and fierce, and she’s all mine.

Dinner?she mouths.

Axel’s,I respond.

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