Page 65 of My Brother's Roommate (Frisky Business 2)
“And I promise that you have big roommate shoes to fill.” Connor, who apparently has the listening skills of a bat, laughs as he pretends to brush dust off his shoulders. “I’m just saying, I was pretty much the best roomie of all time.”
“You were the loudest roomie of all time,” I mumble just loud enough for Penelope to hear, and she covers her ears with a laugh. I’m sure she doesn’t want to hear about her brother’s frequent, noisy weekend extracurriculars.
“Okay, seriously, folks.” Scarlett taps her invisible watch with one manicured pink fingernail. “Enough chitchat. The clock is ticking. Let’s get these presents open!”
For the next half hour, Beth and Connor take turns peeling pink and white wrapping paper off of boxes and wrangling things out of gift bags, unveiling identical pairs of nearly everything on their joint baby registry. Two high chairs, two baby monitors, two gift cards with enough money for a year’s supply of diapers.
Brett is sitting nearby with his phone, taking pictures and jotting down who gifted what for thank-you-note purposes.
I was expecting an element of awkwardness to this whole party, but all three of them just look so happy. So ready to be parents, each in their own different, nontraditional way. Maybe it wasn’t in Connor’s plan to be a dad just yet, but it looks like things are really going to work out for the best.
With the presents open and the cake cut and served, Scarlett makes her rounds, congratulating the parents-to-be and hugging everyone good-bye. When she makes it over to Penelope, she pulls her into an extra-tight hug, one hand still wrapped around her waist as she turns to me.
“So, Wolfgang,” she says, her voice is stern.
I shudder at the use of my full name, even though I know she’s just using it to be dramatic. “Yes?”
“Last I talked to my best friend, Penelope, she said you were in the business of making clean getaways. You promise you’re not going to run away on her this time?”
My brow crinkles, and then it registers. Penelope must have talked to her after my little sprint out of the kitchen in the middle of a make-out incident. Not my best look, but I’ve come a long damn way since then.
“I’m not going anywhere,” I say firmly. “No more running off, no more hot and cold. Your best friend is in good hands.”
“She’d better be,” Scarlett says, giving me a vicious death glare that quickly fades to a bubbly laugh. “Oh, I’m just kidding. You two are a perfect match.”
She pulls me in for a hug, then hugs Penelope again before she finally heads for the door.
“I’m so sorry about that.” Penelope laces her fingers tight with mine, giving my hand a quick squeeze.
I shake my head and squeeze back. “Don’t be. Your friends are just looking out for you. If I need to tell them a thousand times that I’m not going anywhere, I will.”
She chuckles softly, rolling her eyes. “You don’t have to do that, Wolfie.”
“You’re right.” I shrug. “I’ll just prove it instead.”
And I will prove it. Every second of every day. Because that’s what you do when you find a once-in-a-lifetime girl like Penelope Blake.EPILOGUE* * *PENELOPE“Good morning, Penelope!”
My coworker Reagan waves to me from her cubicle as I walk past her on my way to my corner desk. I wiggle my fingers back, shooting her the brightest smile I can muster at seven in the morning. Because despite all my efforts, I’m still not a morning person.
It never fails to surprise me how early she gets to the office every day, and how she manages to have so much energy before she’s even finished her coffee. Still, her cheerful smile is the best way to start a busy workday. Which, according to the very full calendar on my phone, today is shaping up to be.
“Morning, Reagan. Happy Friday.”
I shrug out of my wool pea coat and hang it on the hook next to my desk, then slip out of my snow boots and swap them for the sensible flats I have tucked in my purse, completing my transformation from Commuting Penelope to Office Penelope.
I couldn’t have asked for a better location for my new place of employment—just a few blocks from a Brown Line stop. I don’t have to be out in the cold for too long, and the building tucked back just far enough from the busiest part of Michigan Avenue that I don’t have to push past too many tourists on my commute. As a bonus, the window next to my desk provides a million-dollar view of Millennium Park, which feels like a sign that I’ve officially made it in Chicago.
“You ready for our eight a.m. call?” Reagan asks, her hazel eyes peering up at me from over the side of her cubicle.
