Page 17 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

NINE

FRANKIE

I tossed the bag on the counter and dug out ten rolls of packing tape, and a twelve pack of Sharpies.

From here on out, I had zero excuse to not have tape or markers.

In less than two weeks, I’d lost them all.

Yes, there was a huge amount of crap scattered across Peaches’s place, but it’s like some packing-supply goblin crept in during the day and ate up the materials.

I popped open a drawer next to the dishwasher to add the pens.

“Seriously?” I groaned. In the drawer sat one of the missing tapes. Who knows when I did that? I really needed to be more organized, but the piles surrounding me made me want to choke.

In the field shooting or while editing, I know exactly what I want to do.

My beautiful gift of hyperfocus takes over and I can manage massive amounts of work in a short period of time.

But clutter and making a ton of decisions, and being surrounded by so much stuff, pushes me heavy into decision paralysis.

Sometimes, I love being in control. But times like this, I’d give anything just to have someone tell me what to do.

Which…will be my next three months. I really should be careful about what I wish for.

Morgan clearly had no problem telling me, or anyone else, what to do.

I’d already fielded about ten text messages from her today, one email, and dodged a call from her at the store…

which reminded me… Oops. I forgot to call her back. I’m sure she’ll call any minute now.

This, I remember well from back in the day.

Morgan always on my ass for something or another.

Remembering my gym bag, or to study for some assignment, or to return a library book.

Sometimes I hated it, and sometimes I loved it.

A cross between feeling insulted and cared for, and depending on my mood it could swing one way or the other.

But I understood it came from a place of love.

Growing up, it probably looked to outsiders like I was the tough one.

Just because I loved sports and could tackle the shit out of anyone.

But I always cried just as easily. Still do.

Morgan was always more emotionally strong and stoic.

But I can’t help but think of the way she was at her nephew’s soccer game.

Back in the day, I was the one who’d babysit for pocket money and Morgan didn’t like kids.

She always said they were too loud and messy, which wasn’t a lie, but I sort of thrived on that.

But at the game, I saw this softness, almost motherly side to Morgan, and I couldn’t help but wonder what else changed about her over the years.

My phone buzzed. I glanced down. I knew it .

Morgan:

I’m setting up a goat delivery for the second week of July.

The sheer randomness of her messages, like I’d been floating around in her head all day, jolted me from my thoughts. We hadn’t even reached day one, and she wasn’t running anything by me that I was supposed to oversee. Honestly, I was kind of relieved.

I hovered my thumbs over the screen.

Frankie:

I don’t think Olivia wanted goat rides at her wedding. Donkeys maybe. But definitely not goats.

My phone rang. Before I even said hello, Morgan cut through. “I’ll have you know goats are an extremely effective way of clearing weeds and brush from land. It’s so overgrown that we can have them do the work before the landscapers come in. Cost effective and environmentally friendly.”

Huh . “What do they do with the goat poop?” I was not even kidding. That seemed…not ideal when talking white bridal gowns and fancy shoes.

“Really?” Morgan said in a deliciously irritated tone.

Too easy. Morgan was like poking a bear but knowing that bear was as tough as a kitten. It had quickly reverted into my favorite pastime. “I’m dead serious. What happens to the poop? Hell if I’m going to be on duty to pick that up, and for some reason, I don’t imagine you doing it, either.”

A loud, grumpy sigh sounded over the phone. “I believe the goat owners usually collect it and dispose of it or make fertilizer.”

I could almost see Morgan squirm when talking about shit while most likely amid ironing. The visual was glorious. Somehow, I needed to figure out how to bottle this up and bring it with me back home for fuel on gloomy days.

“Anyway, I’m just letting you know to keep you informed. You can tell Pete and Patty if they ask,” Morgan continued.

“Permission granted.” Poke the bear. “The goat herders should be fine.”

“They don’t herd… Whatever.” Morgan tapped something. “Quick recap on things.”

No problem, I’m free. Thanks for asking .

Morgan probably expected people at her beck and call, but I didn’t work that way.

A hefty protest hovered on my lips, but I stopped myself.

I agreed to help, after all. But if Morgan wasn’t paying me a stipend, and Tommy didn’t need this, I might have bolted by now.

“So, the yard crew is mostly locked in place. My dad thinks between him, us, and a couple of landscapers, they can get the yard in shape in about a week. Today’s May 10th, Olivia and Tommy finally confirmed the date August 5th. So, we have exactly…eighty-seven days.”

So far, Morgan seemed more calm than stressed, but that was not a lot of time.

At all. As a freelancer, most of my deadlines were self-imposed, and very intentionally with a tight turn-around.

With my type of brain, time was not my friend.

Time bred procrastination and scattered thoughts.

Lack of time drove me. Short deadlines kicked me into overdrive, a hyperfocus where I could carry out damn near anything.

But a wedding and remodel in less than ninety days? That was too extreme, even for me.

“The lawn will wait until the week before the wedding. We talked about seeding and paving a path, but that’s too ambitious.

Also, we need to be respectful to Pete and Patty and run certain things by them that you might not know what to do, without overwhelming them.

” Morgan took what seemed her first breath.

“We’ll be mostly cleaning up the yard, trimming bushes, seeing if we can revive that old fountain in the back of the property and bring it up front, clearing their defunct pond, all that jazz.

Also, the remodeling crew is confirmed, but they’re finishing up a few other gigs.

My dad did some fancy footwork just to get them here, but they won’t be able to start for a week.

The best thing we can do is to start clearing stuff ourselves to save time. ”

I almost snorted out a laugh picturing Morgan in her white peacoat and crisp blouse moving mouse traps and broken appliances out of the barn. “ You’re going into that dirty old barn to clear stuff out?”

“ Yes .” Morgan huffed. “God, you really don’t think highly of me, do you?”

It wasn’t that I didn’t think highly of Morgan.

The woman could do things with a spreadsheet that left me slack jawed.

But a spreadsheet was no use when you opened a kitchen cabinet to a heaping pile of mouse droppings.

I could just picture Morgan running and screaming from the house, arms falling.

Morgan, at least the Morgan I knew, was never a “pull your sleeves up and get dirty” kind of girl.

“ Whatever ,” Morgan finally said after I refused to respond. “At minimum, we need to decide what exactly we’re doing, what objects your aunt and uncle want to save, etc.”

With the phone pressed against my ear, I paced the avocado-green carpet. Morgan was always the worrier. Not me. And yet, my heartbeat pounded with the amount of work in front of us. “Do you really think we can pull this off in time?”

“Yes, I really do,” Morgan said firmly. Whatever keyboard tapping was happening on the other end of the phone stopped. “How are the photo edits coming along?”

My jaw tensed. “Why are you asking?” I already knew why she was asking. She absolutely thought I was slacking and wouldn’t get them done in time. “Just so you know, I’ve been working as a freelancer longer than you’ve been running your business and know how to deliver on time.”

A short catch of breath came over the line. “I was asking because I was curious. That’s all. Jesus .”

Okay, so perhaps I’d overreacted. But only a little.

“The edits are going amazing, actually,” I said after a recalibration moment.

“I think I’ll finish tonight.” I settled my shoulder against the wall.

Anything photography related, besides waiting to hear from the magazine, of course, was an instant stress diffuser.

“Oh! Really? I’d love to see.”

My heart lifted at the genuine tone. Morgan was actually interested in what I did?

Shocking turn of events. Back in the day, Morgan never cared much about my “hobby.” She’d look over my shoulder, murmur things like “looks great” or “good job” before diving back into her studies.

“Okay, cool. I can try and send you some later today or tomorrow.”

“Great,” Morgan said. “I need to check how these will look on the invitations I have in mind. A few sample pieces would be awesome.”

And my heart sunk. Morgan wasn’t interested in my work per se, other than that I provided a means to an end.

“Hey, are you at Peaches’s?” Morgan asked. “I’m headed to the craft store, but could stop by after if you’re free?”

My neck grew warm. Morgan, here? In Peaches’s house? I wasn’t sure why, but the idea was suffocating. This house was big enough for sure, but this was my special place. The place that held the tears and the memories. I wasn’t sure I wanted to share this space with Morgan.

“Besides, I have a little something for you.”

The sheepishness in Morgan’s tone sparked some curiosity, and soon that overtook the icky feeling. “Sure. Yeah, I’m here all night.”

Morgan has a little something for me . Hmmm. Maybe she stumbled across an old photo of us? Or, highly unlikely, but perhaps she broke down and wrote an apology letter from all those years ago.

The curiosity turned into a spark, which I tried, but miserably failed, to squelch.