Page 5 of The Ex Effect (Meet Cute in Minnesota #1)

What we had wasn’t a stupid high school romance, and I knew that damn well. It was years of friendship that morphed into four years of building dreams and an intense first love, which took me years to get over. But I’d never let Morgan know she once held that kind of power.

Morgan’s mouth dropped. “How?—”

The laughter from the other table reached a fever pitch and cut through whatever Morgan was going to say.

Probably for the best as I was a pacifist at heart, but if pushed too far, I’d snap and probably say some shit I’d regret.

It had been years since I was in an organized sport, but the competition and fighting spirit floated just beneath the surface, ready to pounce like a panther on its prey.

A chair squeaked as a woman with a black blazer and frizzy blonde hair stepped to the table. “Morgan? Hi, I’m Jane, the owner.”

Oh shit . Hate shifted from me to this woman.

It took a solid few seconds for Morgan’s pursed lips to flatten.

Like a supervillain shape-shifter, she adjusted her expression, stood, and shook the woman’s hand.

Even though I didn’t know everything about planning a wedding, I knew at this late of a stage in the planning process, Morgan needed this venue more than the owner needed Morgan’s business.

“Follow me,” the woman, Jane, said as she stepped back from the table. “I’ll show you the grounds and answer any questions.”

Morgan turned to follow the owner without another look at me. Rude . I scooted myself from the table and double-stepped to catch up.

Outside, we walked past a crooked, rotted fence with a dangling No Smoking sign. Jane removed a pack of cigarettes from her jacket pocket and tapped it against her palm.

Double no. If memory served, Morgan hated rule breakers almost as much as tardiness.

I vaguely remember an argument between us when I begged her to live a little and skip class, and she freaked out at me at my locker.

As the woman lit up and inhaled a deep drag, I wanted to snap a pic of Morgan’s face, which looked like she just stepped in dog shit.

Morgan stepped a few inches away from the embers. “I thought this was a non-smoking venue?”

Jane flicked an ash. “Well, yeah, I’m the owner, so not all rules apply to me. And I’ve had a fucking terrible day, so…”

All Jane needed to do was whip out a flask and Morgan would roll over in her prudish grave. Maybe I was a sadist, but this awkward-as-hell moment was the most fun I’d had since arriving back home.

After walking down the path, Jane cut through the brush. My boots squished in the soggy grass, and I peeked at Morgan’s pristine ankle wedges getting mud on the side. I withheld a smile picturing her scrubbing those with a toothbrush and a pile of baking soda when she got home.

Jane jutted her finger at a structure that could only be described as a run-down machine shed meets a Quonset hut. “There’s the venue.”

Yikes.

Morgan’s throat rolled with a swallow as she stared at the rusted, metal-framed building. “Your website said it could hold three hundred people, correct?”

The woman inhaled a large puff, then flicked the cigarette into the grass. The airborne ashes flew and Morgan, most likely fearful a spark would land on her cashmere scarf and burn her at the stake, whipped her shoulder back.

The cigarette sizzled on the wet grass, but I still wanted to snuff out the smoke.

With Peaches living on a hobby farm, and my aunt and uncle owning a tree farm, sparks were cancerous.

I cracked my neck and exhaled, silently repeating Peaches’s catchphrase: “Ain’t your baby, Maury. ” AKA, mind your own damn business.

The doors screeched like a power drill slicing through sheet metal as Jane opened them, and I gritted my teeth.

Morgan stepped inside and froze. “Well, this has that…rustic vibe…people like.”

Rustic was the understatement of the year.

The place looked like an abandoned warehouse with a single string of white lights dangling from the ceiling—not even near the “finished and ready to serve” venue it touted on its website.

A few folding tables and chairs were stacked against the wall in the corner next to a single wooden bench.

The room carried a smell that I couldn’t quite place—almost the sharp tang of garbage meets a dirty, wet mop.

I stepped further into the space and my boots stuck to the floor. Each sticky footstep echoed as I moved further into the space. Gross.

“Over here you have a bar area.” Jane pointed to a standing table with a sink. “Bring your own. We don’t have bartenders on staff. And I don’t recommend drinking from the tap, so pre-make everything.”

Seriously, how did this place pass inspections?

Morgan’s lips remained pulled tight. “Do you have restrooms to accommodate that many people?”

Jane nodded. “Yep, I’ll show you.” She escorted Morgan and me past the “bar” area, and through the door to a small kitchen space with steel counters, a huge farmhouse sink, and one refrigerator.

She pushed open another door and pointed outside to a wooden shed with a floppy sign that said Restrooms .

Oh no. This was surely the nail in the coffin. No way in hell would Olivia squat in her wedding gown over a toilet in the ground.

“Outhouses?” Morgan frowned.

“Yep,” Jane said. “Good enough for the settlers, am I right?”

A few moments passed when Morgan crossed the grass. “Well, let’s take a look.”

She was not actually going for this, right ? I tugged at her elbow and put my mouth up to her ear. Damn it if that vanilla rose scent didn’t distract me for a split moment. “I don’t think this is the right venue.”

Morgan snapped her gaze at me. “Are you saying you can’t shoot here?”

The blow to my ego was instant. “I can shoot anywhere .” Did Morgan even look at my work?

I knew Olivia sent her my website last week, so had Morgan done even the smallest due diligence, she would know that I normally loved this style…

making something that others don’t find beautiful, into something beautiful.

But for a wedding venue, this place wasn’t right.

At the outhouse, Morgan opened the door for a peek. A putrid fog emerged and floated right over to me. I slammed a palm over my mouth and nose. Don’t puke .

Morgan, who was clearly a poker-face champ, simply stepped back and clapped off her hands. “I think we’ve seen enough to decide. I’ll check in with the bride, then keep you posted.”

“Don’t keep me waiting.” Jane pulled out the pack of smokes and stuck a cigarette between her lips. “There’s other people who want this.”

I sincerely doubted that.

We walked back to the parking lot in silence.

Morgan looked like a deflating balloon as she swapped crisp steps and straight shoulders with slow movements and a creased forehead.

I wasn’t actually feeling bad for her, right?

Sure, this limited-option situation sucked.

But Morgan looked like all hope was lost. Even though it had been fifteen years since I spent any significant time in our town, there must be other places. “So, what are the next steps?”

Morgan dug out keys from her purse. “Almost everything is dependent on the venue. I can’t book caterers, liquor, decorators, DJ, literally jack shit without knowing the date, and I can’t know the date until we book the venue.”

I grabbed my helmet off the bike handle and tucked it under my arm. “It’s gonna be fine. Something will work out.”

“ Clearly , you have no idea what it takes to pull off a wedding, not to mention in three months.” Morgan’s fingers gripped the top of her door frame.

“Olivia and Tommy haven’t even narrowed down the guest list or picked out colors so I can get even a semblance of a theme.

I have to get invitation samples, flowers, guest gift ideas, the list is freaking endless. ”

Christ, that tone. I was just trying to make Morgan feel better after this disastrous meeting. I tugged on the helmet with a smirk, refusing to give Morgan even a morsel of satisfaction that her snarkiness was getting to me. “Cool.”

“ Cool? ” Morgan glared. “You have no clue how complex planning a wedding is. You can’t just wing it like usual.”

Wing it . Well, it appeared Ms. Rose was, in fact, hanging on to some ancient bullshit.

It had been a common theme in our previous relationship that I liked to “wing it.” I was the dreamer.

Morgan was the planner. Which was cute, for a while.

A little salt to the pepper, a yin to the yang, a balance during those chaotic teenage years.

And it worked, until “wing it” morphed into “irresponsible” and “not to be trusted.”

And I wouldn’t point this out now, but this wasn’t my first rodeo.

I had some idea of what it took to plan a wedding.

“Fine, well, let me know when you find the next venue. You have my number.” God, that stupid, sweet face looked simultaneously tough, sharp, and verging on tears.

I needed to just drive away, forget this happened, let her figure this out solo.

Ughhhhh . Sometimes, I seriously hated myself.

I choked on the olive branch I was about to purge.

“Let me know if you need help with anything.”

“I absolutely do not need your help.”

And I’m out . I kicked the side stand, pulled the clutch, and started the motorcycle. I revved it enough to be perfectly obnoxious, and sped out of the parking lot.