The Gratitude Guarantee (Boyfriend in the Bargain #4)

1. Brenna

1

brENNA

E ven though criminal law is not my area of expertise, I did learn enough in law school to understand the legal ramifications of murder. Although, the lawyer in me can’t ignore the caveat that you only face the consequences if you’re caught and convicted. Sure, there’s also my inner sense of justice and integrity, but on days like today, I don’t feel like I can rely on those qualities. It would be entirely too easy to capitulate to my baser instincts if I thought I could get away with it.

The object of my ire is one Robert Springfield III, an entitled, condescending chauvinist who also happens to be my boss. I was lucky enough to spend the last hour in his charming company taking notes during an office meeting. I am always the one to take notes in these meetings, despite being a fully credentialed attorney who passed the bar with an impressive score, and despite no longer being the most junior associate. When I was hired into Springfield & Springfield’s prestigious corporate law firm, I was proud to be the only female associate, happy to pave the way for future women in the firm. In retrospect, I should have been more concerned about the bro culture that was obvious from the start because now, I’m a glorified secretary.

But none of this is new or worth dwelling on right now when there are plenty of clients who deserve my attention. I drop into my desk chair, take a calming breath, and try to focus on clearing out some of my overflowing inbox before lunch. Amongst the myriad emails, one subject line catches my eye immediately: Important Thanksgiving Information – RSVP Required!

Thanksgiving has always been one of my favorite holidays—it’s right up there with Christmas—and hearing from my mother is always a welcome respite, especially on days like this one. Although I hope this email won’t contain a reiteration of the conversation we had a few weeks ago about my single status going into the holiday season.

“I know, honey, but there’s more to life than work,” my mother said, responding to my assertion that I am focusing on my career right now.

It’s not like I haven’t dated at all. Throughout my college and law school years, I occasionally succumbed to friends’ requests to set me up with guys they were sure I’d like. And most of them were fine, but none of them were intriguing enough to make me want to adjust my life plan.

“I like my job,” I told her, mostly truthfully. I do like corporate law, even if I don’t like my boss or the company culture. “It’s interesting and challenging.”

“I just don’t want you to miss out on finding love and having a family of your own.”

I understand my mother’s sentiment. She and my father have been excellent role models for what it looks like to love someone well and for the long haul. They’re still obsessed with each other even after thirty-five years of marriage. The problem is, I’m not sure I believe in the whole “love of your life” thing. The idea that there’s one perfect person out there for every other person? Logically, that doesn’t make sense.

But since I hate arguing with my mother and have no wish to wound her tender, romantic heart, I promised her I would keep my eyes open for eligible bachelors going forward.

I make myself respond to ten work emails before I allow myself to be off the clock for lunch and click on the personal message from my mother to everyone in the family. Skimming through the first half, I note the itinerary for the day with satisfaction. All of our favorite family traditions are included again this year, starting with a Turkey Trot 5K and culminating with a traditional turkey dinner that evening.

It might seem a little weird to have a detailed schedule for Thanksgiving Day, but my family thrives on organization. And my older sister Heather lives ten hours away in Milwaukee, so any time she makes the trek to visit with her family, we try to make the most of our time together. Isaac, the youngest, lives in Knoxville with his wife and twin toddlers, only a few minutes away from my parents. I’m pretty sure his proximity and progeny have made him the favorite over the last few years, not that he didn’t often hold that title growing up as the baby of the family.

The itinerary is followed by a dinner menu that includes most of the usual suspects. Just before I click the reply button to let Mom know that I’ll bring a dessert and a fruit salad, my gaze snags on a short paragraph at the bottom.

This year, your father and I thought it would be fun to add an element of competition to our celebration. Each couple will form a team, and each team will have the opportunity to accumulate points through a series of activities that I will include in a separate email soon. Brenna, I know you don’t have a lot of time for dating, so I have invited Vincent Patterson to be your date for the day and your team member for the competition.

My vision narrows to a small black pinprick as anger, humiliation, and incredulity war for prominence. How dare she? Normally, I get along pretty well with Elaine Hartford, enjoying a closeness that I know a lot of my friends can only wish for with their mothers. I wasn’t a particularly dramatic teenager, and we’ve had only a handful of spats over the years.

But this? This is unconscionable. I don’t care how well-intentioned she was, this is crossing a line. Clicking the reply button aggressively enough to endanger my mouse, I tap out a reply in staccato bursts of fury.

Please inform Vincent immediately that his services will not be required. I am more than capable of finding a date and don’t need you to set me up with your friend’s son WITHOUT EVEN ASKING ME. I will bring someone that I choose for myself.

Love, Brenna

I can’t even bring myself to feel badly for the all-caps. It will serve her right to be email-yelled at. Really, I felt I exercised remarkable self-restraint by refraining from characterizing Vincent as her best friend’s “scruffy-haired, bird-obsessed son” like I wanted to. But as angry as I am, it’s not Vincent’s fault that my mother intruded, so there’s no need to be unkind.

I hit send and grab my purse as I stand. All I want is to get out of here and get some lunch. Hopefully addressing my growling stomach with a cheeseburger and a milkshake will make my problems seem more manageable. But one thing is for sure—no amount of comfort food is going to help me find a suitable date in the next week. I don’t know how I’m going to manage that.