Page 5 of The Wrong Guy

Only my sister would pop off with that as a good thing.

“I don’t want to hear about what you and Wyatt do in the bedroom. Let’s play a game and I’ll tell you what’s up.” I spin, heading for the closest empty table.

Right behind me, Hazel clarifies, “Bedroom? We don’t have a TV in the bedroom. Studies show that couples who do have fifty percent less sex. Fifty percent, Jesse! No, we watch the TV in the living room like sex-having people do.”

I shake my head, mentally singing as loud as I can so I don’t hear her.

“Wait, the living room where we all sit on the couch when we come over?”

Hazel grins, and I shudder.

“I’m bringing over a plastic sheet to sit on,” I declare. “Or sitting at the kitchen table from now on.”

“Been there, done it on that too.” She wiggles her dark eyebrows, making sure I know exactly what she’s saying.

I drop my head, pinching the bridge of my nose and closing my eyes. I repeat the mantra I have so many times since Hazel and Wyatt got married. “She’s not my problem now. She’s not my problem now.”

But that’s not true. My family is the most important thing to me—good or bad, ugly or pretty.

I wait until Hazel is aiming at the cue ball to tell her, “You still have pore shit on your nose.”

She makes three balls on the break anyway.

Chapter 2

WREN

“Hey, Mom, sorry I’m late for dinner. Work was crazy,” I shout as I enter my parents’ home, tossing my purse to the marble-topped table in the foyer and praying it doesn’t knock over the vase of fresh flowers. Maria must’ve made something spicy tonight because it tickles my nose, even over the smell of the bouquet. My stomach growls as I click-clack as fast as I can across the tile floor, pulled toward the kitchen.

“No worries, honey.” Despite her patience, Mom’s sitting at the table with a glass of sparkling water that’s ready for a refresh, obviously waiting for me for our Monday night mother-daughter catch-up dinner. I give her shoulders a hug, and then I do the same greeting for Maria, my near–second mother who’s stirring a big pot of rice on the stove. There are several other pots, too, but they have lids, so I don’t get to sneak a peek at what she’s whipped up. And I know better than to try, because she’ll whack my hand with the wooden spoon she can wield as well as a knight with a sword.

“Smells delicious.”

“Thank you, mija. Sit down and I’ll get you and Ms. Pamela a plate.” She gestures at the table with her spoon and then opens a pot, getting a face full of steam in the process. Maria and her husband, Leo, have worked for my parents since before I was born, and have kept this family going through good and bad. Catching up with Mom might be the reason for my visit tonight, but Maria’s cooking is a close second.

“What’s happening at work?” Mom asks, genuinely curious, as I sit down beside her.

Her reputation is a lot to live up to, though I try every day. Pamela Ford has officially been “the mayor’s wife” for most of her adult life, standing steadfastly at my father’s side while raising three kids, acting as Junior League president, volunteering for the PTA, and serving a killer backhand on the tennis court. Despite her lack of “official” work, she’s supporting and understanding of what I go through as the newly minted city attorney for Cold Springs.

“Norton’s got a case of sticky fingers. I caught him trying to make copies of some of the city contracts. Actual physical copies on the copy machine of entire files.” I roll my eyes at the absurdity. Ben Norton has been the city attorney for nearly thirty years, overseeing everything from contracts to helping my dad, the former mayor, with legal advice to keep the city running right and proper, and I’ve been his right-hand man since I did my internship with him years ago. There was never a question where I’d go to work after law school. My place was in Cold Springs, at city hall, as Norton’s heir apparent.

“He said it was ‘for old times’ sake’ and when I called bullshit, he admitted to wanting to have a backup ‘in case you messed up.’” I mimic his shaky voice, which despite its weakness had hurt my feelings, given our solid work experience together. “Seriously. Like I’m the one who’ll mess up city contracts when he doesn’t understand a thing about the twenty-first century. He didn’t know to include social media clauses in employment contracts, for God’s sake.” I’m waving my hands around and looking at Mom like can you believe that? as I rant.

Maria sets down plates filled with shrimp and rice in front of us and then adds a glass of sparkling water for me when she tops off Mom’s. “Eat. You’ll feel better,” Maria tells me. It’s her solution for most things, and I’m not ashamed to admit that I take that advice regularly when she’s the one who’s cooking.

Mom’s smile is gracious as she picks up her fork, taking a small bite. “Mmm,” she moans. “I don’t know how you do it every time.” The compliment makes Maria blush in delight. “And you, honey—” She pins me with a blue-eyed stare. “Be nice to Ben. That poor man has been through the wringer and then some. God rest his Margaret’s soul.” Mom presses a hand to her chest and looks toward the ceiling. “Retiring is hard when it’s the only thing he has left. He’s not worried about you. He’s worried about not being needed.”

I sigh, knowing she’s right. “I am being nice. You know I love Ben, and Margaret was always nice to me. But if he doesn’t hurry up and retire, I might be forced to help him out the door. With a good, solid shove.” Scrunching up my face, I mime pushing old Ben Norton out of city hall like a dog that won’t go outside to shit in the rain.

Mom laughs, but quickly covers her mouth. “Wren, you’re terrible.”

I shrug, laughing too. “You made me this way.”

We eat a few bites in companionable silence, waving as Maria disappears upstairs with plates for Leo and her. So when the doorbell rings, we both jump. “You expecting someone for dinner?” I ask, and when Mom’s brows lift, I add, “Is this another setup? I swear to the almighty Taylor Swift that if you invited some frat boy fresh out of medical school for a li’l meet-n-greet with yours truly, I will cancel our dinners for a month this time.” She’s not too worried about my single status with both of my older brothers married, but that doesn’t mean she wouldn’t be over the moon if I did pair up and find my own slice of happily ever after.

Thankfully, Mom throws her hands out in innocence. “I’ll get it.”

She disappears, her bare feet silent on the tile, and I eat another bite. My plan is to open-mouth chew like a cow if Mom does reappear with a possible suitor, maybe talk about how eager I am to have an entire litter of kids as soon as possible. That’s usually enough to run people off, even with the draw of my last name.

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