Page 2 of The Fangirl and the Grump

“You didn’t have to do that,” I say, rushing over to relieve her of my bag. “Thank you.”

“This place is…” Madison says, her words trailing off like she can’t find a suitable descriptor.

“It’s great, right?” I cut in before she can say something negative. “Cozy and comfortable.”

“It’s just for two nights,” Sloan says, nudging Madison with her elbow. “I’m sure thecommonwon’t rub off on you in one short weekend.”

“I like it,” Pressley says in her chipper voice, making the other two roll their eyes.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly. Madison and Sloan thrive on being bitchy, but it’s part of their charm. At least, that’s what I tell myself. Pressley is the polar opposite of them, and I do love her eternal optimism, but sometimes her incessant people-pleasing gets on my nerves. I just wish she’d stand up to Mads and Sloan every once in a while. They treat her like an annoying little puppy who won’t leave despite being kicked in the head repeatedly.

Okay, that was dark. Another cleansing breath.

No one is perfect, and these three are the only real friends I have. Madison opened her home to me. Sloan introduced me to––

Nope. Not going there. It still fucking hurts.

And Pressley can’t help that she thrives on the approval of others. It’s who she is. It’s in her DNA. Taking that out of the equation, you’re left with a sweet, thoughtful friend who’s funnier than she thinks she is, smarter than anyone gives her credit for, and kinder than most adults would ever strive to be.

And they’rehere. For me. That’s what matters.

“Let’s get cleaned up and head to the tavern for drinks. I want to get fucked up tonight,” I say, dancing around a little with that last part.

That seems to light a fire under them all, and they follow me down the hall with their bags so we can choose our rooms. We all agree to give Madison the main bedroom––she has the most luggage and needs the biggest closet, after all––and we split up into the leftover rooms as Sloan calls dibs on being the first to shower.

Four women sharing one bathroom is going to be tricky, but like Sloan said, it’s only for two nights. I’m sure we’ll manage.

It takes a full two-and-a-half hours, but by the time the antique grandfather clock in the living room strikes eight, we’re all dolled up and ready for a night on the town. At least, the others are dolled up in tube dresses and high heels with smoky eyes and red lips.

I, on the other hand, read the room…so to speak. This is a small, rustic town hidden in the forests of the Pacific Northwest. Sure, it’s a tourist destination because of the Cursed movies, but that doesn’t change who the locals are at their core.

I packed accordingly, so tonight I’m wearing a pair of tight jeans that hug my curves, black ankle boots, and a black tank top beneath a red and black plaid button-down. The others eye me when I meet them in the living room, but somehow manage to refrain from making any caustic remarks on my attire.

Yes, I look like Lumberjack Barbie…if Barbie was five-four with wide hips, thick thighs, a bubble butt, and lots of jiggly cleavage.

Sometimes, I feel out of place next to the rest of these willowy goddesses, but I don’t like to dwell on it. I’m short and curvy, and most of the time, I own it. I fell down the rabbit hole after the whole messy debacle with he-who-shall-not-be-named, but now I’m finally feeling like myself again.

And I have a feeling that tonight, the girls will end up wishing they’d dressed like lumberjacks, themselves. I’ve looked at photos of Wolfsbane Tavern on its website, and it’s no Seattle nightclub. Does it make me petty that I don’t mention this to my friends?

Maybe.

But the entertainment of seeing them walk into this small town bar dressed to the nines and realizing their mistake is too promising to give up. Besides, they deserve it after all the bitching and moaning they’ve done since we got here.

Before I can speak, Pressley rushes past me down the hall to her room. When she emerges, she’s wearing a jean jacket over her dress, and she’s changed out of her heels into some patent leather combat-style boots. She looks hot, and I give her a nod and a smile for her choice. Madison whispers something to Sloan, who chuckles in response, and I feel my blood heat.

“Let’s go,” I say before I lose what little control I’m still holding onto.

We decide to walk so no one has to be a designated driver and the bar is only a half mile down the road. I get a little sick satisfaction watching Sloan and Madison try to navigate the rocky shoulder in their heels and quickly reprimand myself for being bitchy. Pleasure in the pain of others istheirthing, not mine.

By the time we get to the bar, I’m more than ready for something sweet, fruity, and filled with alcohol. Pushing ahead of the others, I lead the way to the bar where a fine hunk of man meat gives me a smile as he sets a cocktail napkin in front of me.

“What’s your poison?” he asks as my friends crowd around me.

“I’ll have a tequila sunrise,” I say, “and two shots of Patron.”

The hunky bartender raises his brows and laughs. “Go big or go home, huh?”

“I need it,” I say with a shrug.

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