Page 21 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

Morgan wiped her hands on a towel. “For right now, anything that can’t be put in the dumpster, we’re putting down the hill where wedding guests can’t see it.

” She shoved the towel in her back pocket and cocked her head.

“I’ve instructed the guys to make a ‘possibly salvageable’ pile and a ‘definite salvageable pile’ for you to look at and review.

I know you are supposed to be in charge , but I made some executive decisions on things like broken glass, plastic pots, rotting wood, and mice traps. I’m assuming that’s okay with you?”

First of all, Morgan did not just put air quotes around “in charge,” did she?

I exhaled a little bit of fire from my nose and swallowed back the deep desire to remind her that I was the one doing her the favor, not the other way around.

How did all these little incidents take me right back to being sixteen?

Like the time when my teammates and I decided to do a carwash fundraiser to pay for us to go see the Timberwolves at the Target Center.

Morgan wanted to “help out” and ended up being so militant about signs and advertising and getting customers, she even pissed off the coach.

We did, however, make enough money to pay for the band to come with us, too, but Christ, her delivery still sucked .

“It’s fine. I’ll deal with it,” I finally choked out, and nope, I also wasn’t going to admit that a part of me was deeply grateful she started the piles, because I would’ve taken a look at the overwhelming amount of items and probably panicked. But she still should’ve asked.

I spent the next twenty minutes hosing out some kids’ wagons, which would make a great photo op prop for the wedding, when Morgan stepped out of the barn, picking off debris from her overalls.

“I’m starving,” she said. “Want to take a break? I brought sandwiches.”

Okay, so maybe she’s not that terrible. “Yeah, I could eat.” I thought about bringing lunch but got distracted last night with packing Peaches’s Precious Moments collection and didn’t get to the grocery store.

Before I left this morning, I ended up stuffing a few protein bars and a bottle of water in a bag.

After washing our hands old-school-style with a garden hose and some lilac soap Morgan brought from home, I popped down the tailgate and hopped up on the only surface I was confident sitting where I wouldn’t get glass shards stuck in my ass.

I bit into the sandwich, which was way more delicious than the protein bars.

God, this sandwich was delicious. Turkey, sprouts, mayo, and mustard made the perfect combo. There was a small deli outside of my apartment in Manhattan that had the best pastrami on rye, but it didn’t nail the turkey sandwich like Morgan did. “So, I sent the main pics to Olivia last night.”

“Great. She needs to buckle down and choose the photo she wants for the invitations ASAP.” Morgan cracked open a bottle of water. “If we don’t get those out by next week, we’ll miss the eight-week mark.”

“Then what?” I asked, swallowing back the sandwich with a swig of water .

Morgan stopped the bottle mid-air before taking a drink. “What do you mean, then what ?”

Whoa . Did her tone really change like that?

The question still stood. This fascination/obsession with time and following certain archaic rules was so over the top.

No wonder Morgan always looked stressed out.

If she could lighten up just the tiniest, she’d probably be happier.

“I mean…then what? Seriously. What happens if the invitations are sent at seven, or even four, weeks before the wedding?” I took another bite and shifted the food to the side of my cheek.

“No one will die, you know? This isn’t life or death.

It’s not like we’re pediatric surgeons or something. ”

Morgan’s face flamed. She tossed her sandwich aside and jumped off the tailgate. “You literally have no respect for what I do.”

Was she actually serious? I had God knows what sort of rat-infused rust, glass shards, and splinters all over my clothes, my muscles were on fire, and not that I’d ever say anything, but I’d way overexerted myself these last six hours and tonight I’d have to ice my knee for an hour.

And Morgan was saying I had no respect? Screw her. Seriously.

“What the hell do you mean, no respect?” I snapped. “I’ve busted my ass all day to help you make this day great. It’s not like anyone from the wedding will say ‘great job, Frankie, you really cleaned the hell out of that place.’”

“That is not the goddamn point! You’re always late for everything, and you have this…attitude…this, ugh, all-encompassing… vibe …that you just don’t give a shit.” Morgan’s hands jutted with every sputtered word. “I can’t rely on you, and yet I need your help, and I’m totally trapped.”

Maybe “rely” was a bit of a trigger word after hearing that a million times over in my life, but I hopped off the truck, hard, and landed just right on my bad knee. An electric white heat shot through my leg and I clamped my teeth together .

I never asked to be born with the brain I had, and no chance in hell would I admit to Morgan the shame I carried for years when I’d forget things, or not finish tasks, or get so focused on something that I lost track of time.

It took years in therapy, reading every article I could on ADHD management, and a solid medication regimen, to let some of this go.

And in a snap, Morgan threw it in my face.

“You’re fucking ridiculous, you know that?

People bend over backwards to do everything you want them to do.

You just think because you’re beautiful, smart, organized, and have never made a mistake since you were ten that everyone needs to fall in line.

News flash—this is not the military. I do not have to listen to your orders.

I could walk away this second and not give you or this place another thought. ”

Shit. That was too far, and definitely not true. But the fire was ignited, the words just exploded, and I was at the end of the goal line refusing to lose to my opponent.

Morgan stepped forward, her eyes blazing. “Well, at least I know some things never change.”

The words landed with the intended sucker punch, and my gut dropped.

As Morgan stomped away, I flashed my gaze between Morgan, the barn, and the truck.

It would be so easy to tear out of the driveway and go back to Peaches’s.

But if I did that, I’d be no better than what Morgan said.

Yet, the idea of continuing to work with Morgan for the rest of the summer constricted my chest so tight I needed to cough.

I kicked at a rock embedded in the tire. Right here, right now, was a fork-in-the-road decision. Stay or go.

And I had no idea what I was going to do.