Page 4 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

“No way. Huh,” she said. “Spunky little Quinn with her braces and freckles works on Wall Street? She’s forever stunted in my brain as a bratty fourteen-year-old. I can’t even picture her in a business suit.”

“Well, she technically works on Wall Street, but probably not the way you think. She’s the executive assistant of some bigwig.

And she’s still annoying.” Quinn had both changed and not changed over all these years.

Growing up, our grandma Peaches had called Quinn a jalapeno popper—crunchy, spicy, but inside she had some sweetness.

Which was pretty much a perfect description. “What’s your brother up to these days?”

Morgan shrugged. “Sam’s the same. Works for Mom and Dad. Too many kids to count. Still arrogant, but I love him.” Morgan checked her watch again and sucked in her lips.

I finally peeked at my watch. We’d been waiting for well over ten minutes now, and Morgan’s face looked like it verged on blowing a gasket.

She was gnawing away at the inside of her cheek, and I could hear her foot tapping under the table.

Waiting like this was annoying, but what other option did we have?

But red fanned from Morgan’s neck and up her cheeks and if I didn’t keep talking, I’d probably have to perform CPR.

“So… wedding planning? How did you get into that?”

Morgan twisted the silver bangles on her wrist. “After college, I worked at a contracting firm in Duluth as a project coordinator. Since I had the lowest seniority, they’d put me in charge of coordinating office parties.

I liked it, so they moved me to planning some community and client events. And then when Sam got married?—”

“Wait—Sam?” I lifted a brow. “Who did he marry?”

Morgan cocked her head. “Who do you think?”

No way. “Lisa? They’ve been together since like freshman year, right?”

“Seventh grade.”

I remembered Sam from when we were kids.

He was a year younger and a nice-enough guy to banter with about the games.

When Quinn and Morgan glazed over after two minutes of talking about anything with a ball, I usually defaulted to Sam.

But it was hard for me to think of Sam as a married father, and not a backwards-baseball-hat-wearing, smart-mouthed jock.

Morgan finished the last of her water and wiped up the water mark on the table with a napkin. “They’re still nauseatingly happy, too. Got three blonde-haired, blue-eyed babies. They look like a freaking toothpaste commercial.”

I smiled and shifted in my seat. Sitting for any length of time always wreaked havoc on my system. Pretty soon, I’d need to burn the energy building in my limbs. “What about your parents? They still have the contracting company?”

“Yes, but it’s elevated a bit. Contracting, remodeling, landscaping, the whole thing. They have a full staff, an office downtown, everything.” Morgan peeled off her jacket and laid it in her lap. “They even bought Lutgen’s Nursery.”

“That place? Damn. They’d been in business forever.” Mr. and Mrs. Rose were some of the hardest-working people I’d ever seen. Sure, my parents were not exactly known for hard work— or stability, for that matter—but even so, Morgan’s folks were King and Queen Hustle. “Good for them.”

Morgan’s fingers tapped against the table, and she turned, presumably looking for the hostess, who was AWOL along with the owner. She leaned back against the pleather booth and crossed her arms. “So, you said you’re back home helping family?”

“Yeah, um.” I cleared my throat. “Peaches died, so I’m getting her place ready to sell.” Selling the place with so many good memories—warm cookies on Saturdays, chasing Quinn around the yard, watching goats eat mounds of grass—twisted my stomach.

Morgan inhaled a sharp breath. “Peaches? I’m… I’m so sorry.”

I shrugged. It wasn’t the right movement to convey my feelings, but throwing myself into my ex-girlfriend’s arms so I could have a good solid sob wasn’t the right move, either.

My grandma, “Peaches,” was a true force of nature.

A five-foot-tall, strong, fiercely independent, and brutally honest German woman who took as much shit as she handed out.

Peaches had loved hard, fought hard, and cussed so much, even I blushed.

At ninety-two years old, it wasn’t shocking that she passed.

But it still hurt like hell not having her in the world.

“She was an amazing woman,” Morgan said.

“Yeah, she was.” Peaches had always liked Morgan. She called her an old soul with a “firecracker spirit” and said Morgan reminded her of herself. I never knew if that was a compliment or insult, as Morgan’s stubbornness rivaled Peaches’s.

“If her house hasn’t changed, packing up is gonna take some time.”

“It’s even worse .” I fiddled with the sugar packets on the table. “Do you remember the basement cellar with all the fruit she canned in the eighties? Still there. Hundreds of jars of pickles, fruit, beans… sadly, no moonshine, though.”

“Probably a blessing in disguise there was no moonshine. That cellar scared the crap out of me. Pretty sure the ghost we released still haunts me.” Morgan tucked a lock of hair behind her ear. “Are your parents helping?”

I huffed through my nose. Morgan clearly did not remember my parents.

“Nah. They are… busy.” I’d asked them, but they said they had too many projects and didn’t have time to “sift through all of that shit.” Projects meant them tinkering around in a shed, holding down the job of the month, or bellying up to the bar.

The second I asked, I had instantly regretted it.

“They did say I should hand over any valuables, though.” I chuckled, although it wasn’t really funny.

Part of me couldn’t blame my parents. In a final f-you act of rebellion toward her son and daughter-in-law, Peaches refused to buckle under the pressure my dad pushed on her, and she left the house to Quinn and me.

Sure, Peaches had declared a million times while living that she’d always leave the home to us, but there was some obvious lingering saltiness that Peaches didn’t change her mind at the end.

“She used to make the best rhubarb pie.” Morgan closed her eyes. “With homemade ice cream, right?”

And… she smiles. Sure, not a full-on, mega-watt Julia Roberts or anything, but softly, enough to make me remember Morgan did not always walk around with a Mall of America-size chip on her shoulder.

“Oh, I forgot about the homemade ice cream.” Such a lie.

Why did I even say that? I didn’t forget about the ice cream.

I rarely forgot anything about my past; my memory was both a gift and a curse.

Funny how I’d often walk into a room and forget what I needed or leave the house without my phone, but my mind gripped on to situational memories, replaying the good and bad in vibrant details .

Back during those childhood summers, Morgan and I would stop by almost daily for a scoop.

Did Morgan have the same flash of memory as me?

The first kiss that happened over homemade vanilla ice cream in Peaches’s backyard.

We were fourteen years old, sitting on the rickety wooden swinging bench on the back porch, and had Katy Perry blasting through an iPod.

If I closed my eyes, I could still see the floating cottonwood and feel the flutters when Morgan gave me a shaky kiss on the mouth.

Laughter from the table of women made Morgan stiffen. “I need to find the hostess. We were supposed to meet the manager almost thirty minutes ago. This is absolutely ridiculous, not to mention highly unprofessional.”

And… she’s back. The softness swapped with the same uptight, rigid, uncomfortable woman I remembered. “Maybe she’s caught up with something.”

Morgan pushed herself from the booth. “We don’t have time for this. Every second wasted sitting here is a second that I need for a million other things.”

Wasted? God, she sucked. I just opened up about my grandma passing, and Morgan thought it was a waste of her time? I was seriously regretting telling Tommy I’d take this job.

Morgan’s heavy wedges clicked against the floor as she marched over to the hostess stand. A moment passed when she crossed her arms and frowned.

Definitely not a good sign. “What did she say?” I asked as she returned.

“She thanked me for my patience and said the owner knows I’m here with a thumb up my ass and will be with me shortly.

” Her face fumed red. I probably should not be taking quite the amount of pleasure in this that I was.

“Obviously, she didn’t say the thumb part, but still.

If we didn’t need this place so bad, I’d hightail it out of here without a second glance. ”

I crossed my legs under the booth. “Because the manager is busy? Don’t you think that’s a little extreme?”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed. “Extreme? How many weddings have you planned? Punctuality is everything . If they can’t be on time for a simple meet and greet, how can I trust them to host an entire wedding?”

Even though Morgan had a point, I wanted to scratch off my ears with the condescending tone. I refused to let on that I agreed. In a snap, I was back in high school getting scolded by my high school girlfriend for not finishing a term paper on time. I lifted my chin in a quick nod. “Gotcha.”

“Whatever.”

Really? “What does that mean?”

Morgan sucked in her cheeks. “I know keeping promises is not your forte, but this is business, and we don’t have that type of luxury.”

Well, that went downhill fast. The words stung hard and fast like a slap.

Not due to whatever history Morgan referred to, but because of my last two years in New York.

“Are you actually serious right now?” I pushed back into the booth and crossed my arms. “You’re not talking about some stupid high school romance, are you? ”

Morgan’s eyes turned a dark, angry blue.