Page 7 of I Could Be Yours

I refrain from commenting. I’ve been over here planning the bachelor party and slacking on everything else, it seems. And here’s Little Miss Sunshine and Rainbows making pretty spreadsheets. I can make a fucking spreadsheet. With formulas. I do it all the time. She’s not the only organizational wizard at the table.

The server arrives with appetizers. He must ask Essie three times if he can get her anything else, to which she always replies with ano thank youand a smile.

We hit pause on the planning and pass the plates around.

Essie taps her lip, surveying her plate and the ones scattered around the table.

“What are you missing? I can give you whatever you need, Ess,” Flip offers.

“I’m good.” She bites back a smile. “Nate, can you pass the cauliflower?”

“Oh come on, Ess.” Flip waves a hand in my direction. “Thisguy doesn’t even believe in love! Why would you look to him to fulfill your needs when I’m right here?”

“Keep me out of your flirting. I’m not looking to be part of your throuple,” I grumble and stab some potato-poof thing.

“Am I not good to you, honey bear?” Flip winks at me.

I scratch my temple with my middle finger.

“Okay. Back to business.” Essie looks expectantly at me.

“What?”

“Please pass the cauliflower.”

“Right.” I hand them to her.

Her fingers graze mine, and the hairs on my arm rise. She takes three pieces and passes them to Flip, who takes one while eyeing it with skepticism. The guy would live on KD—Kraft Dinner—if Rix didn’t drop off meals for him twice a week. On top of being an accountant, she’s also a full-time student and develops meal plans for my brother, her brother, and some of their Terror teammates.

Essie continues to lead this dinner meeting by reviewing all the food, games, and decorations for the bridal shower.

“Do you have a rough estimate for the cost per person?” Rix asks.

“Whatever it is, I’ll cut a check,” Tristan assures her.

“I can figure it out for you right now.” Essie glances at the totals while setting up a new formula. “Roughly eighty-seven dollars a person based on food and drink,” she says before she’s even had a chance to complete the formula. She highlights the row, the total appearing.

I had no idea Essie was math smart. I also had no idea I’d be attending a bridal shower.

Since I haven’t looked at Essie’s emails, I can’t make any valuable contributions, and asking questions will only highlight my complete lack of involvement. So I just sit here and continue to be annoyingly impressed with her attention to detail, exceptional organizational skills, and ability to run numbers in her head. I feel like I’ve underestimated her—notjust now, but in the past—and that bothers me for a lot of reasons.

In high school, she was the girl everyone wanted to date. She was voted hottest girl in the school all four years, and she was fun, a literal ray of sunshine. She didn’t hide the fact that she loved all things princess, and she always had a new boyfriend. For some reason I assumed she floated through every part of her life the same way, but now I have to wonder what else I’ve been wrong about.

Eventually we move on to the stag and doe, which is also a co-ed event. Again, the point is to raise money. This time for a local women’s shelter.

“I have a list of prizes and the corresponding games they would be best suited for.” Essie consults another beautiful spreadsheet with projected earning potential for each game already outlined, based on prizes. “I’m still on the hunt for a Plinko board, though.”

“You mean fromThePrice is Right?” I ask.

“Exactly!”

“I’ll make it. I can make a Plinko board. What else do you need made? Or done? I’m good at organizing things, too.” I can’t allow this to continue. Not when I’m literally the king of organization.

“My shoes have never been lined up so perfectly,” Flip agrees.

I give him a look.

“And my towels have never been folded so uniformly. If you want to make my bed for me too, I’m down, honey bear.” Flip winks again.

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