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And yeah—this is just the beginning.

Chapter Thirty

Joely

Within my city limits, you can’t sneeze without someone offering you a tissue, a cup of coffee, and at least two unsolicited opinions about your love life. So when word got out that Brogan Foster was officially off the market—and not just off but tangled up with Joely Parnell like a pair of mittens on a kindergarten coat hook—the whole town buzzed with the kind of satisfaction that comes from being proven right. They always knew it would be her. And if there were candles flickering in every window and a little extra sugar in every pie today, well, that’s just how we celebrate when two of our own finally get the happy ending they deserve.

Playlist: Bloom by The Paper Kites

My first official day as Brogan Foster’s girlfriend starts the way all epic sagas do: with someone pounding on my front door at an hour only feral raccoons should be awake.

I fumble with my crutches, nearly trip on a discarded ice pack, and crack the door open to find Lynsie and Gisele standing on the stoop like a couple of reality show hosts about to stage an intervention. They’re both carrying enough bags to open their own Sephora outlet.

“About time!” Lynsie announces, breezing past me. “It’s game day, Parnell. Girlfriend sex doesn’t just happen. It’s orchestrated. It’s curated.”

Gisele gives me a once-over, her mouth puckering like she just licked a lemon. “Jesus, Joely, is that pizza sauce on your shirt or a crime scene?”

“It’s abstract art,” I say, but she’s already peeling off my hoodie and yanking open her own Mary Poppins bag.

“Bathroom. Now,” Lynsie commands. “We need a soak, a scrub, a shave, and at least three serums.”

“Can’t I just… you know, be myself?”

“Absolutely not,” Gisele and Lynsie say in eerie unison. “He’s going to remember this night his entire life. Do you want him to remember you resembled a yeti?”

I groan, but secretly, I’m relieved. I don’t know how to prep for “girlfriend sex.” I barely know how to put on eyeliner without giving myself a black eye. And my leg is still in a cast, which means I’m hobbling, cranky, and one slip away from starring in my own slapstick disaster.

Lynsie sets a folded towel on the edge of the tub and rolls up her sleeves. “All right, Miss Hopalong, prop up your royal foot. Gisele, hand me the scrub.”

Gisele starts pulling out products and narrating like a QVC demo gone rogue. “Exfoliant, check. Shave oil, check. Sparkly body lotion, obviously. And—oh my God, Joely—when was the last time you bought new underwear?”

“I have a system,” I say defensively, clinging to the world’s saddest sports bra.

Gisele snatches it and tosses it in the trash. “With that, you have a crime against humanity. Tonight, you wear lace. Period.”

Lynsie starts running the bath, tossing a bath bomb in for good measure. “You trust us, right?”

I shrug, trying not to show how nervous I actually am. “More than anyone.”

“Good. Because tonight is big. First real night as the girlfriend. Not the secret crush, not the almost. The main character. You deserve a montage.”

They get to work. Gisele’s hands are in my hair, Lynsie’s buffing my leg (avoiding the cast like it’s a bomb), and the bathroom fills with laughter, gossip, and the kind of love that feels like armor.

I close my eyes and let it happen. The pampering. The transformation. The wild, slightly terrifying joy of being fussed over by the people who know me best.

For the first time in a long time, I feel it: not just wanted, but worthy. And suddenly, I can’t wait for Brogan to see me—cast, nerves, and all.

When I finally emerge from the bathroom, my skin is glowing, my hair’s styled into loose waves, and my ankle is safely barricaded. I smell like coconut, vanilla, and a dash of raw nerves. The girls have turned my bedroom into a cross between a spa and a bachelorette party. There are candles on every surface, my bedside lamp is draped in a pink scarf for “atmosphere”.

Lynsie stands back, arms crossed, looking so proud you’d think she invented romance itself. “All right. Final step. Wardrobe.”

She swings open my closet door and starts rifling through hangers at warp speed. Gisele digs through her bag, and holds up a lacy slip of red lingerie that looks like it was designed by a sadist.

“Absolutely not,” I say, because one leg is in a cast and the other is currently trembling from all the standing.

Gisele just winks. “Who said you have to walk anywhere? You’re the queen. All you have to do is recline and accept worship. You just had surgery. For one night, you can be a complete pillow princess, and he can’t lodge one complaint.”

I laugh, nerves buzzing under my skin. It feels a little ridiculous—like I’m starring in some kind of makeover montage where the happy ending is less ‘red carpet’ and more ‘Brogan Foster seeing me as his girlfriend and not just the girl he grew up with.’