There was a reason Nate was my best friend for so long, and he has slid seamlessly back into my life. We have so much fun together, and I haven’t smiled or laughed this much in forever. I don’t want to hide or limit that. I want to go on morning walks with him and go on dates. Plus, there is also the fun added bonus of rubbing it in Angela’s bitchy face.
“Yeah.” Ruby nods. “My mom called me to ask about you and Nate and she moved out of the Reserve five years ago. She’s very happy for you, by the way. Said she always thought you two would’ve made a cute couple.”
“I love your mom. Tell her I said thanks.” Dr. Amanda Dunlap, formerly Peterson, is smart, funny, and even though she raised Ruby, still very sweet. After news broke about Mr. Peterson’s affair, she checked out for a little while, but I think that’s to be expected. She moved to Denver a few years ago for a new job, and from what Ruby’s told me, she’s thriving. “Maybe we could all take a trip to Denver and visit her one day. Does your one cousin still live there?”
Ruby’s family isn’t very big, but her mom’s cousin and his daughter came to visit a few times when we were younger and I always really liked her.
“Brynn?” Ruby asks. “Yeah, I think she owns a bar or something? I’m not sure. I’ll have to ask my mom.”
We stay on the sidewalk, stuffing mailboxes with flyers and magnets. We pass houses for sale and I try to bite back my giddy smile seeing Nate’s face on the signs that still have wiggle eyes plastered onto them. We greet our neighbors and make small talk as we pass by. Like a good candidate, I tell everyone why I’m running—well, I leave out the part about spite and pettiness—and how I hope as HOA president to make it less about rules and fines and more about living in a community where we care and treat one another with respect.
“Okay, I have to tap out now,” Ruby says when we reach the end of the block. “I have a video conference in an hour and I need to take a shower. Plus my feet hurt and I don’t want to do this anymore.”
We’ve been out here for almost two hours. She’s lasted about an hour and a half longer than I thought she would. Of course, while I’m all sweaty and the size of my bun has doubled from humidity since we’ve been out here, she looks like a dewy supermodel ready to step on set for a photo shoot.
It’s rude.
“I think I’m going to go with her.” Ashleigh hands me the small stack of flyers we still have left. “I found a new recipe I want to make for dinner and have to run to the store. You and Nate are welcome to join us if you want.”
When I dated Peter, we never had any couple friends . . . or single friends for that matter. Ruby lived on the other side of town, and with LA traffic, she might as well have been living in Texas. When we did manage to get together, Peter never tagged along. I see now that it wasn’t so much that he knew Ruby hated him—which she did—but that he didn’t care to put in the effort to do anything that didn’t directly benefit him.
Becoming friends with Ashleigh, and by proxy Grant, has made me realize how empty my life really was in LA. I worked, came home, and worked some more. I squeezed in time for people when I could, but it wasn’t often. I was too busy struggling to write the next big hit to do anything else. Now I have friends, family, I’m writing a script that I love, and I get to kiss a really cute man while I’m at it. I think this is what people are talking about when they say they want balance.
“Let me ask him, but that sounds fun,” I say. “Even if he can’t go, I’ll be there.”
It’s too hot for hugs, so we wave as we go our separate ways. I flip through the remaining flyers to gauge how much longer I’m going to have to be out in these streets. Canvassing with friends is much more fun than doing it alone.
I turn the corner to the next street and immediately run into another for sale sign with Nate’s face—with googly eyes still intact—on it. This time, though, there’s an open house sign right next to it that causes me to hesitate.
He’s working. It’d probably be best to keep walking and send him a quick text wishing him luck. Or I could go inside and watch his butt as he gives me a tour of the house I don’t have the desire or funds to buy.
Obviously, I choose option two.
It’s later in the afternoon. Other than Nate’s Buick—which I still give him a hard time over—there aren’t any cars parked outside and I hope I’m catching him alone. I assume I can walk in so I push the front door open without knocking. I’m immediately greeted by the smell of freshly baked cookies and spotless wood floors gleaming beneath the sunlight pouring in from every opened window.
“Hello,” Nate calls from somewhere inside the house when the door closes behind me.
“Hello!” I call after him, following the sound of his voice.
I’m walking through the living room when he rounds the corner and causes my steps to falter.
“Hey. I thought that was your voice.” His eyes are soft and his smile is gentle as he closes the space separating us, touching his lips to mine when he reaches me. “What are you doing here?”
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing his forearms, and his hair is mussed as if he’s been running his hand through it all day. I think it’s my first time seeing him wear a tie and I’m surprised at how into it I am. He looks so freaking hot it takes me a minute to focus long enough to answer.
“I was handing out flyers and saw your open house sign.” I wrap my arms around his neck and pull his mouth to mine once more. “Thought I’d come in and see you in action.”
“That’s nice of you, but I think you might’ve overestimated the action part of real estate.”
“Maybe,” I say. “But I still want to see the house. Pretend that I’m a potential buyer and show me around.”
He looks hesitant for a second, but he gives in immediately when I stick out my bottom lip.
Sucker.
“Fine, I’ll give you a tour.” He shakes his head and smiles down at me. “But this means you’re going to have to let me read the script you’ve been working on one day.”
After what happened with Peter, not only did I think I’d never write again, but I knew there was no way I’d ever feel comfortable sharing my work with anyone. But for some reason, when Nate asks, I don’t think twice.
“Deal.” I extend my hand and he envelops it with his large one. “Now, let’s start upstairs and work our way down.”
Because if he’s going to tell me about this twenty-five-hundred-square-foot craftsman, I want to begin the tour by watching his butt climb the stairs.
* * *
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