Page 22 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

TWELVE

MORGAN

My ears perked at the sound of Frankie’s truck firing up, its shoddy, rattling muffler echoing across the valley. But when the distinct crunch of gravel sounded, I peeked out of the barn door at the dust kicking up from the back tires as Frankie tore out of the property, and my heart sank.

She left. Again . Just like that. Yet again, I wasn’t worth helping, worth staying for.

My lower lip trembled, but I sucked it into my mouth and bit it to make it stop.

But…why did I say those things to Frankie?

What was wrong with me? Frankie was a goddamn workhorse, lifting and moving as much as the crew.

And instead of saying thank you and essentially paying her back with a turkey club, I railed into her about being late.

And Frankie wasn’t even late. Not technically, anyway.

Ugh. I made Frankie feel like shit, and for what?

Because the tension of executing on an impossible timeline was building, brimming, bubbling over, and I had to lash out at someone, something, and Frankie was an easy target? When did I become this person?

I tugged on my work gloves and returned to the barn.

Am I even allowed in here without Frankie?

I seriously hoped that Pete and Patty didn’t mean that Frankie had to literally watch over me—which was a joke anyway.

Frankie was the least responsible person I knew.

It’s like asking a toddler to babysit a college kid.

She couldn’t even make it a full day without storming off like a child.

She’s coming back, though, right? Dammit.

What would I do if she didn’t? Beg Pete and Patty to let me have the wedding here anyway, even though they explicitly said only if Frankie were involved?

Work through some magical third party like Sam or Frankie’s sister, Quinn, who could negotiate a truce between Frankie and me, and she could come here after hours and sift through the items I wasn’t sure I should throw?

No, no. She’d come back. She had to. There was no way she’d do this to Tommy and Olivia. I think. I hope. But then again, she did it to me. All those years ago…

I kicked at a small piece of broken pallet and surveyed the area. Nothing good was going to come from me sitting here wallowing and wondering if Frankie was coming back. I needed to just plow through this and keep my fingers crossed we’d make this work.

Okay, okay . I can do this . The corner of the barn held dozens of boxes of old Christmas decorations.

Some good, some broken, everything filled with years’ worth of grime.

Inside one tote, I nearly gagged on the smell and made an executive decision to toss the entire thing.

After lugging it to the dumpster, I prayed it didn’t contain some special family heirloom.

How did Sam do this type of work every day? I twisted my back until it popped like gunfire, then returned to the barn.

So many things to do. Tools, dirt, broken windows, junk pile, junk yard, trim trees, trim bushes…

My chest squeezed. I scooped up broken glass and dumped it in the trash.

Place settings, flowers, wedding cake, invitations, call the florist, find a DJ, arrange table and chair renting…

My heartbeat quickened, throbbing in my throat.

It was too much. I couldn’t handle this.

I put a fist on top of the broom handle and leaned my forehead against the top.

“Dude, you workin’ or what?” Sam’s voice sounded behind me.

I breathed in a sharp breath and jabbed at a dirt pile with so much ferocity, I almost broke the handle in half. “That’s all I ever do. Work, work, work. There’s nothing else in my life except for work. Sorry I had the audacity to take a two-minute effing break!”

“ Whoa .” Sam gripped the handle, and when I yanked it away, he tugged tighter. “You’re not mad at the broom, so let’s go easy on it, okay? We already know you could totally take it on in a street fight.”

Even Sam couldn’t get me to crack a smile.

Even though six of us worked for hours today, we didn’t even make a dent in the overflowing piles of shit.

Why did I think this was a good idea? Why did I ever say yes to Olivia?

God, maybe I should just quit and work for my parents.

Sam seemed happy enough. I could give up my business and stop having the stress of doing everything alone, stop crumbling under the burden that every damn decision might make or break my business, stop shouldering the responsibility of people’s dreams.

The tears broke through and I covered my face.

“Oh shit. Oh, okay. You’re crying. Um, yep. I got this. I’m a dad now.” Sam tapped me on the back like he was burping a baby. “You’re good. You’re fine. It doesn’t hurt that bad, right?”

I swiped the tears with the back of my grimy hand. “First, I didn’t scrape my knee.” I sniffled. “Second, have you read even a single article on parenting? You should validate kids, not tell them it isn’t that bad.”

Sam leaned the broom against the wall. “Come on. Why don’t we take a breather on the bench and crack a brewski? ”

“Beer’s gross.” My nose dripped. I wiped it against my forearm, something I never thought I’d do, but I was filthy and disgusting, and didn’t have any Kleenex.

“Good, ’cause I don’t actually have any with me. How ’bout instead, we take a break, and we split the bars Lisa made.”

Bars? I lifted my chin. “The ones with the cornflakes, peanut butter, and chocolate?”

Sam grinned. “Is there any other kind?”

Even if my brother wasn’t the most emotionally intelligent human I’d ever met, ten minutes later, with my cells buzzing from the pound of sugar I just ingested, I felt better.

Sam didn’t ask any questions, most likely knowing I’d talk when I was ready.

Instead, we sat in silence, the sun warming the back of my neck, listening to the crew chain up yet another piece of machinery to haul away.

Sam dragged a napkin down his face, then balled it in his palm. “So, you think Frankie’s comin’ back, or should I see if Mom can find another crew member?”

I shrugged. Frankie didn’t have a great track record for staying.

And if I dug deep, which was a miserable thing to do, I myself had a pretty solid track record for pushing people away.

With that combo, chances weren’t good Frankie would be returning anytime soon.

Frankie would most likely fulfill her commitment to her family friend to be the photographer and probably figure out a way to sift through the junk piles, but that might be all.

“We can’t ask Mom. This is already a huge favor to get these guys half-time.” I drank half a bottle of water, then used the rest to rinse the stickiness from my fingers. “I’ll figure it out.”

Those were the words. But the reality was I had no idea if I could figure it out.

Sam pushed his fist into his jaw and cracked his neck. “All I know, is once you set your mind to something, no snowblower, bulldozer, or pack of rabid wolves could stop you.” He nudged his shoulder into mine. “I know you’ll figure it out. Let me know if you need me.”

He walked away without another word, surely exhausting the last of his brotherly love for the day.

I spent the better part of the next hour moving scraps of pallet wood to the side of the dumpster, and with each passing minute my heart sank deeper.

I really didn’t mean to lash out at Frankie.

It wasn’t Frankie’s fault that she shined a mammoth-sized spotlight on my insecurity.

But still, I wanted Frankie to care. I needed Frankie to care. I just didn’t know why.

But now was probably the time for me to be the responsible adult and apologize.

Like it or not, if we were down a body, I had to figure out a plan.

I pulled out my phone and hovered a finger, so close to dialing.

Ugh. I can’t do it . Why did this hurt so much?

Anger I could deal with. A solid emotion that I knew how to handle.

But this ache, low in my chest, hadn’t happened in a lot of years, and I hated it.

I stuffed the cell back in my overalls. Who has time for this crap?

I stormed back into the barn and continued gathering old cleaning products for the hazard dump run.

Another hour passed. Sam left to work at our parents’ shop and fatigue kicked in.

I moved to the small tool area and popped my hands on my hips.

Screws, nails, and every bolt imaginable overstuffed the space.

If Pete and Patty were anything like my parents, discarded gadgets were sacred ground.

Although Pete and Patty clearly subscribed to the “never throw anything away because you may need it” rule, with tools, that particular rule was gospel.

“See you tomorrow,” a crew member yelled into the barn, and I waved. The sounds of trucks starting and gravel crunching and truck doors banging swirled outside. I wasn’t going to lie—being alone on this farm was going to be creepy as hell.

The evening sun was still bright enough, thank God, so the demons lurking the woods couldn’t get me quite yet. But the second the sun started setting, I was out of here.

Something sounding like a twig cracking jolted me, and goosebumps rose on my flesh. No, no…just my imagination .

A moment later, a shadow appeared, and that definitely wasn’t my imagination. I reached for the item closest to me—a three-foot-tall, dusty, plastic candy cane—and held it above my head.

“Better watch out with that thing. You could take an eye out,” Frankie said, her hands up in surrender. “Okay, maybe not an eye, but you could definitely hurt an elf.”