Page 51 of Best Friends, Tennessee

I wasneverlate.

I seemed to have every red light and slow driver in Bestens in front of me as I made my way to the client’s house. I drummed on the steering wheel as I watched the time on the clock pass. I tried giving the guy a call twice, but he didn’t pick up. Jim Dunnas was one of my wealthier clients, and I knew he wasn’t exactly mymostunderstanding client of all time.

“We’ve got this, we’ve got this,” I said under my breath even though I knew it wasn’t the case.

I pulled into his curved driveway five minutes past when the appointment was supposed to start. Sure as hell wasn’t going to have time to walk in calmly like I usually did, setting the tone for the whole appointment before we even got started.

I stepped out and hauled my portable table out of the back of my truck.

When I rang the doorbell and Jim answered the door, he gave me a look that made me feel about two feet tall.

“Got a meeting right after this and not much time to shower,” was the first thing he said, before I could apologize. “Let’s go.”

“I apologize, Jim,” I told him. “It won’t happen again.”

And it never has happened, not once in the past two years,I thought, biting back the urge to say it out loud.

“I’m busier than ever this week,” Jim said, which was another thing he said almost every single week. Jim was the CEO of a shipping logistics company a couple of towns over, and I was convinced he thought he was the most important person in the state of Tennessee. He got massages for an old sports injury around his shoulder, and we’d slowly been making progress on rehabilitating the muscle in the area.

Jim made multiple comments about my “tardiness” throughout the massage, even after I’d promised him a hefty discount for today.

I left his house with a pit in my stomach.

I knew it was my fault for being late.

Ori always said I was “too nice,” but in moments like these, where I actuallywasthe one who’d fucked it up, guilt pooled in me like bile in my stomach.

The next three appointments I had were each their own little shitshow of a different variety, with an old woman who was wearing a gallon of perfume, a man with a cat that kept coming over to scratch and bite my ankle, and my final client, Mason.

And Mason was inseriousHot Mess mode.

He opened the door mostly naked, holding a pillow over his dick.

“Mason, for God’s sake,” I said.

“Hello again,” he said. “Just woke up from a nap. Sorry.”

He gave me a sympathetic look, and I could tell he actually did feel bad about his state of undress. His hair was going in all directions.

“Glad you got some sleep, finally.”

He looked… good, though. Even though everyone had always called Mason “Hot Mess,” people said the first part of the nickname was true—hewasa hot guy, according to most people who described him.

I found myself wondering if I thought he was hot, for the first time, but I knew I wasn’t attracted to him.

I couldn’t imagine any guy turning me on the same way I’d been with Ori, actually. But maybe it was because I knew Ori so damn well.

Mason gave me a nod. “I’m sorry, Finn. Just rolled out of bed, but I didn’t want to flash you, so I grabbed a pillow.”

His house smelled delicious, and I noticed a ton of fresh cinnamon rolls on his kitchen counter as he led me through.

“Wait. I know those cinnamon rolls. Was Thomas here after I left this morning?” I asked.

“Mmhm,” Mason said. “Baked up some fresh cinnamon rolls for me before he headed over to the diner. I told him I wanted him to do it the other day, and he actually came over. I couldn’t believe it.”

For the first time all day, I felt a strange surge of hope inside me.

I liked the idea of Thomas hanging out with Mason.

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