The Gratitude Guarantee (Boyfriend in the Bargain #4)

4. Brenna

4

brENNA

“ N o, I don’t think that will be necessary.”

Even though I’m a fairly cautious person, years of work with clients has also taught me to trust my gut when it comes to people. My read on Zach Dawson is that he’s a nice guy offering to help. No creepy vibes, just some golden retriever energy. And he’s certainly not bad to look at with his strong jaw, dark hair, and soulful brown eyes under thick brows, which is always a plus. In fact, if I were interested in dating, he’s exactly the kind of guy who would be my “type”.

That being the case, I’d be crazy not to accept his offer, which is a veritable lifeline in the storm. I barely slept last night because I couldn’t stop ruminating on my predicament. “If you’re sure, then I’d be happy for you to come to Thanksgiving with my family.”

“Good, then it’s settled. When do we leave?”

My initial elation at this fortuitous arrangement fades a bit as it hits me that finding someone to bring is only one piece of the puzzle. There are still a lot of details to address.

“Usually, I leave Wednesday afternoon and stay at my parents’ house at least two nights, maybe three,” I say slowly, thinking through how things might be different this year with a companion. “Would that work for you?”

Zach’s forehead furrows, his dark brows drawing together. “Will your parents mind an extra house guest?”

“Not at all.” I wave away his concern. “Despite my mother’s overbearing attitude toward my love life, they are actually really friendly, welcoming people. They have plenty of room, so I know it won’t be a big deal.”

“If you’re sure it won’t be an issue, then I’m fine to leave Wednesday and stay wherever you put me. The main perk of owning your own business is that I have complete control of my schedule, not that there’s a ton of yard work being requested this time of year.”

I smile. “No, I’d imagine not.” I tap my chin, thinking. “It’s about three hours from Nashville to my parent’s house in Knoxville. If we leave around two o’clock, we should get there in plenty of time for dinner. Then we can get a good night’s sleep and be ready to hit the ground running on Thursday.”

“Literally,” Zach quips with a grin.

I snort. “Yeah, literally. At least I know you’re a runner.”

“But I’ve never run in a race before,” he warns me. “Hopefully I won’t slow you down.”

“Don’t worry, I won’t wait on you,” I tease. I’m only halfway kidding though. The Hartfords are a competitive crew, and I’ll have to do my best to have a shot at winning this couples thing. But as Zach gathers our empty cups and takes them to the garbage, I let my gaze linger on his muscular form for a moment, and I have to admit, the man looks to be in great shape. I don’t think I’ll have to worry about him keeping up with me. If anything, it might be the other way around.

I stand as Zach approaches the table again. “Why don’t we exchange contact information and we can iron out the details later? I’ll be able to talk to Mom and get more info over the weekend.”

“Sounds good. What’s your number?” He types it in and taps out a quick text, my phone pinging with the incoming message. “Your last name is Hartford?”

“Right.” It’s not lost on me that I just invited a guy who didn’t even know my last name to spend Thanksgiving at my childhood home. I try not to dwell on how strange that is. Desperate times call for desperate measures, as they say.

The important thing is that I found a decent guy to partner with me for this competition without maternal interference—and with five days to spare.

Zach tucks his phone into his pocket. “Alright, well, I guess I’ll wait to hear from you.”

“Yep, I’ll text you tomorrow.”

“Okay, then. Can I walk you to your car?” He gestures toward the motion-activated glass doors that lead to the parking lot.

“Sure.” I fall in step beside him, pulling my sweatshirt on as we exit into the chilly November evening.

“This is me,” I say when we reach my black sedan.

He gives me a little wave. “Have a good night, Brenna.”

“You too.”

I watch him cross the parking lot and get into a large, dirty pickup truck with the words Dawson Lawncare and a logo decaled on the door. The truck roars to life and he backs out, his eyes finding mine as he puts it in drive. I give him an awkward salute and slide into my own vehicle, embarrassed to have been caught watching him.

At home, I shower and pull on a pair of leggings and an oversized sweatshirt. I have the apartment to myself tonight since my roommate Amanda is on the night shift this week at the hospital where she works as a nurse. I shove my feet into my favorite pair of leopard-print fuzzy slippers and shuffle to the kitchen. That smoothie only took the edge off my hunger since lunch today consisted of an apple and a Snickers bar that I keep in my desk drawer for snack emergencies. It was all I had time for after Mr. Springfield stopped by my desk on his way to lunch with the other partners and left me a stack of documents to scan and e-file. He insisted that they needed to be done by the end of the day and I already had a full afternoon scheduled, so lunch was the only available time to squeeze in that extra task.

I put some leftover broccoli cheddar soup in the microwave and watch it spin on the glass plate, inhaling the savory scent as it heats and trying to ignore the frustration that swells in my chest whenever I think about work. I should be used to it by now. It’s not like this is new behavior. I’ve worked there for close to three years, and it has been a never-ending string of grunt work. Infinite filing, making copies, and doing discovery for court appearances that I’m never allowed to attend.

But it can’t last forever. I might have been a token hire, but I am a good lawyer. I have to believe that if I can just stay strong and not let Springfield wear me down, eventually he’ll be forced to acknowledge my merit as an attorney. Plus, I can’t stomach the thought of letting him win. At some level, I feel responsible to womankind to make this work.

I know I can do it. I can coach myself through all kinds of uncomfortable things—like in college when I miscalculated my credits and by the time I realized I needed one more elective to graduate on time the only available course that didn’t mess up the rest of my class schedule was entomology. Ento-freaking-mology. I spent the whole semester shuddering and grimacing as I touched about a million bugs, but I got an A in that class and graduated when I was supposed to. This is no different. I just have to hold my nose and press on.

To distract myself from thoughts of work and murder, I text my mom.

Can my date for Thanksgiving stay at your house with me Wednesday and Thursday nights?

She replies almost instantly, and her utter dismay is evident.

Of course not! Just because you’re an adult now does not mean we throw our values and house rules out the window, Brenna Lynn Hartford. Boyfriends and girlfriends do not share beds!

I roll my eyes and respond quickly to clear up her outraged confusion.

I didn’t mean with me in the same room! I just meant can he stay at the house so he doesn’t have to get a hotel room?

Oh. Sure, sweetie. We’ll put him in the guest bedroom and you can stay in your old room.

Thanks, Mom. We’ll be there around 5:00 pm Wednesday.

We’ll see you then. Does this boyfriend have a name?

I bite my lip, wondering if I should bother to correct her leap to boyfriend when I clearly said “date”. Ultimately, I decide it’s not worth it to attempt an explanation by text message and just respond with his name.

Zach Dawson. You’ll like him, he’s nice. And I already warned him about the competition. I thought you were going to send more details?

I will. Watch for an email tomorrow.

That’s something to look forward to, I guess. More details about the specific ways my mom is trying to manipulate me into finding a life partner through a competition that’s obviously designed to force me to pair up with someone. I sigh loudly into my empty apartment as I wash my bowl and spoon. How did my life get to be such a mess?