Page 57 of Kind of a Bad Idea

Mom can say what she wants about Seven and his “wild and rowdy” relatives, but it’s the McGuires that turn every social gathering into a sound pollution situation. There are just too many of us. Eight kids are a lot to begin with, but now there are spouses and grandchildren and friends of the spouses and pets and friends of the pets…

It’s just…a lot.

Especially for a person who wants to be left alone to read in peace most of the time. It’s one of the many reasons I love my new job as a remote data analyst, working with a social science department on the East Coast. Sure, Zoom meetings are the worst, but that’s only two mornings a week. The rest of the time, I’m left blissfully alone to pour through data, write papers, and make graphs.

Ah…a graph, now there’s a thing you can put your faith in.

Not like people. People are far too confusing and hard to read.

Which, sadly, means my own matchmaking days are probably behind me. I loved the rush of helping two people find love way more than I thought I would, but I’m not usually good at spotting a perfect match. I only knew about Binx and Seven because she’s my sister and closest sibling.

Even with my other siblings, I often don’t understand what’s in their hearts.

Barrett, for example. I had no clue that he and Wren would be ever be anything more than friends and colleagues. Their romance took me completely by surprise. Same with Christian and Starling. To be honest, I thought they disliked each other right up until the moment Mom started having a coronary because some jerk had leaked their sex tape to the internet.

I shudder at the thought as I step onto the dock beside the boathouse.

I would die.

I would spontaneously combust from shame and my ashes would be blown away by the wind, never to be seen again.

But that’s one of the many benefits of being a twenty-four-year-old virgin. I don’t have to worry about my sex tape being leaked to the internet, revenge porn, or STDs. I also spend very little time fretting about my heart being broken or accidental pregnancy.

Basically, life as an ancient, nerdy virgin is a bowl of cherries—pun intended.

I couldn’t be happier.

So, why does my heart twist in my chest as I lean against the dock railing and stare back at the historic hotel, where all my nearest and dearest are celebrating?

I’m not jealous, truly I’m not. I wouldn’t want to get married right now. I’m not even ready for a steady boyfriend.

My remote job might go in-person in the next few months. If it does, I’ll be moving to Boston, and scoring a twenty thousand dollar increase in my annual salary. The last thing I need is an emotional attachment in Bad Dog tying me down. I already have the emotional attachment of my family to deal with. I know they won’t be happy to learn that I’m moving so far away, even if it is only to assist on a two-year research study.

So, no. No boyfriend or fiancée for me, but a kiss might be nice.

Or maybe, something more than a kiss…

I wouldn’t want to put my perfect “no dicks anywhere near my lady flower” record at risk, but the way Seven was holding Binx as he guided her around the dance floor made me wonder what it feels like to be held like that…like the person holding you finds you irresistible.

“Wendy Ann McGuire? Is that you?” The deep voice rumbling from my left makes me jump half a foot in the air.

“What?” I gasp as I spin to watch a tall shadow emerge from the open boathouse door. “Wh-who are you?”

He chuckles, a pleasant, rolling sound that makes the hair stand up on my arms. “Aw, come on. You remember me,” he says, grinning as he steps into the moonlight a few feet away. “You used to eat boogers in my backyard.”

“I did no such thing,” I protest, making the man laugh.

He chuckles again. “I was just teasing, McGuire. Everyone knows my little brother was the gross one.”

My eyes widen. “Connor Sinclair?”

“The same,” he says, a dimple popping in his right cheek.

My jaw drops as my gaze tracks up and down the tall, muscled person Connor Sinclair has become. From his tousled sandy blond hair to the shining tips of his fancy shoes, he looks…expensive. Expensive and polished and too handsome for his own good—all things I hate in a guy.

So why does my neck hair join my arm hair in prickling to life as he steps closer?

“Shouldn’t you be at the wedding?” he asks, motioning toward my gauzy lilac bridesmaid’s dress.

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