Signed, Sealed, Delivered: A brother’s best friend / anonymous penpal romance (Wells Family)

Age 13:

To: [email protected]

From: [email protected]

To my new friend,

Hello, howdy, bonjour,

Looks like you’re my assigned partner in our pen pal partnerships group.

Since we have to keep this “anonymous,” you can call me Lily. It’s not my real name. And since we’ll be doing this for the next six months, I have to ask you the following questions. No point in working hard on this if we don’t even like each other. There is only one right answer to each, so watch your mouth…or your words, I guess.

1. Which Pop-Tart flavor is the best?
2. What would you name your pinkie toe if it suddenly became its own person?
3. Who would you cast to play you in a movie about your life?

I have more, but I’ll go easy on you for now.

No pressure, but these questions will determine whether we can truly be friends. And I’m pretty cool, so if I were you, I would answer wisely.

Good luck.

Your almost friend,

Lily

***

There are over sixty ways to combine English cuss words. And I’d used almost all of them in the last five minutes.

“Come on, you piece of metal donkey. Move.”

I banged the steering wheel with both hands, willing my car to get me another forty feet. Just far enough to make it to the pump at the gas station. In response, it shook and gurgled like it was cussing right back. I gasped, appalled by my vehicle’s attitude.

So I took a different approach—good cop, bad cop style.

“You are not a donkey, sweet angel. You’re a stallion. A racehorse ready to refuel and recharge. In need of a massage and aromatherapy. I gotchu, sis. Just keep pushing.”

Miracle of all miracles, my Corolla reached pump nine. Once we were there, it let out another gurgle, and then a tiny pop. And I swear the engine sighed. I could only assume it was my car’s equivalent of taking her bra off at the end of a long day. Patting the steering wheel, I assured her that she could relax now.

When I pulled out my wallet, I was certain a moth flew out. Or maybe a tumbleweed. Inside the worn leather sat thirty-four dollars in cash, a Starbucks gift card with maybe seventy-two cents left on it, and a business card for a traveling barber. The other side held things most adults considered practical: my driver’s license, my debit card, and a gym membership card. But none of those would help me, considering the balance in my checking account was somewhere around negative forty-three dollars, last I checked.

I pulled out a twenty and tapped my steering wheel again.

“Good job, Lola. Man, for a second there, I didn’t think you were gonna make it.”

Lola didn’t reply in any kind of way, but she didn’t have to; I knew she was ready to rest.

I took my keys from the ignition and weaved my way through the parking lot. The gas station smelled like stale Triscuits with a hint of cigarette smoke. It was a glorious scent, considering that about ten minutes ago, I thought I’d be stranded forever, forced to survive on highway roadkill.

Spending roughly 60 percent of all the money I had to my name on gas was like a knife to my chest. But then I passed by a tiny stand of pecan clusters on the way to the counter. They were only three dollars, so really, I was making good financial decisions. It was an investment. I needed to fuel my car, then fuel myself with the cluster.

It was when the cashier handed me my change and I didn’t leave a single penny in the donation box that it hit me: I was truly broke. I could practically hear my mother’s voice saying broke is just a mindset. But I would like to see her say that to my most recent bank statement.

It was time to download those financial audiobooks from the library and try not to fall asleep on the drive. I may have spent the entirety of my last paycheck on my first student loan payment, but I had a framed sports marketing degree and a box of granola bars my roommate had left behind in the back of my car. I was doing just fine, thank you very much.

Once I was back on the road and on my way to Philadelphia once more, I called the first person I wanted to see.

One ring later, my brother answered and grumbled, “You better be on your way. Layla’s been chomping at the bit to see you since she woke up.”

I smiled at the thought. “Of course she has. Her favorite future sis-in-law—”

“Only future sister-in-law.”

“—is coming to see her,” I finished, ignoring my brother’s rude interruption.

I’d been making these plans for weeks now. I’d packed my things, ready to move back to Philadelphia. Back to family.

“What time will you be here? We get pretty slammed around six.” Despite his best efforts to sound grumpy when he answered, there was no hiding the smile in his voice; he was excited to see me too.

“I’m about”—I looked at the ETA on my GPS—“thirty minutes away. Are you sure you guys don’t mind if I stay with you?”

He chuckled, and a higher-pitched voice in the background chimed in with a sentiment I couldn’t hear.

“Layla already has scented candles and new pillowcases set up in the spare room.”

I sighed. Ugh, I loved that girl. When Luke and Layla were just friends, I’d pushed hard for this relationship, and now that they were together, I wondered if he was worthy of her.

“Tell her that she deserves better than you.”

He groaned. “I’m not telling her that.”

“Just saying,” I singsonged.

“See you soon. Try not to kill any curbs on the way here.” I didn’t have to see him to know he was rolling his eyes. The move was practically audible.

Smiling, I hung up. I was ready to be back. More than ready, really.

It was long overdue. My final semester had nearly killed me. But after graduating—thank you, Jesus—and quitting my not-so-fabulous job as a server at the local Chuck E. Cheese, I was willing to sacrifice my left pinkie toe to be back in Philadelphia. One perk of having Luke as my brother: I’d always have a temporary place to stay in the city.

I visited pretty often, but I usually stayed at my parents’ house. However, the last time I was in town, I walked in on them half-naked and playing Twister. Even after a thorough eye-bleaching, I hadn’t recovered. The idea of walking in on Layla typing like a maniac at three a.m.—wild haired and wide-eyed, all caffeinated like she hadn’t slept in three days—was far less frightening than witnessing my surprisingly frisky parents in that kind of situation again. I shivered at the thought.

Only this trip would be a little longer than usual, considering I was homeless, broke, and no longer working for the second-most famous mouse. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

The brightly lit Romfuzzled sign greeted me as I pulled into the newly paved parking lot. Smiling, I opened my car door, and before my feet could touch the ground, I was hit with the soft, sweet, and slightly floral scent of spring.

Beds of fresh flowers lined the path to the entrance. No doubt Layla had to force Luke to plant them. Heat radiated from the asphalt in the June heat that greeted me, instantly frizzing my slightly curly hair.

“Honey, I’m home!” I announced the moment I pushed through the wooden French doors.

Layla, who had been sitting at the bar, shot up from her stool and ran over to me, leaving her open laptop and a half-eaten pizza slice behind. I opened my arms wide in anticipation of her warm hug and squeezed her tight.

It was a miracle that my brother had Layla in his life. A beautiful woman as nerdy as him who also had a heart of gold? She was a unicorn. Something I liked to remind him of often. I was more than excited to have Layla as my sister-in-law in just a few months, although it felt like we had been family since the day we met. From day one, Luke had looked at her with puppy dog eyes. But they circled around each other for a few years, oblivious to their mutual infatuation, before finally realizing what they had. I couldn’t say the slow burn wasn’t fun to watch.

“I missed you!” Layla squeezed me around my waist and rocked from side to side. When she pulled away, she looked me up and down. “Are you hungry? Are you eating enough? I know what it’s like at the end of your college career. Broke and exhausted, right? Come eat pizza with me.”

I laughed and followed her to the bar, because I was indeed broke, and though the thought was tempting, I couldn’t live off turtle clusters for the rest of my life.

Plopping onto the wooden barstool, I kicked my feet back and forth and happily bit into a slice of pepperoni pizza. Layla dropped her elbow onto the bar and rested her chin in her hand, studying me. “Tell me everything. How long are you here? What are your plans?”

I almost choked on the too-big bite I was working on, because I had no plans. I had less than no plans. I had negative scheduling. Negative like the balance of my bank account. I needed a roof over my head—preferably one where I didn’t have to avoid spontaneous Twister games—and a job that didn’t include singing happy birthday to children.

“Right now, the plan is to find a job and somewhere cheap to stay so I’m not bumming off you guys forever.”

Layla nodded. “We have more room than we know what to do with, and the company is nice. You’re welcome to stay as long as you’d like.”

“No, you’re not” came from down the bar. And there, striding our way and wearing a smirk, was Luke.

I rolled my eyes. “I’m only here for Layla. You know that, right?”

He chuckled and tossed the dishrag from his shoulder onto the bar.

“Do you want a drink?”

“Is it free?”

My brother dipped his chin and gave me a heavy-lidded stare. “I guess this one can be.”

I nodded. “Good. I don’t want to spend my last seven dollars on a drink called Paper Clips.”

It was three p.m., but who cared?

Luke turned to get to work, but Layla stood from her barstool. “Wait, let me do it!”

With a smile, he jerked his head. “Come on, little one.”

She happily meandered around the end of the bar and beamed at me. “I’ve been practicing my drink mixing skills when I’m not writing. Luke says I’m pretty good.”

My brother nodded, but the second she turned around, he widened his eyes and shook his head, mouthing, “No, she’s not.”

Beside him, Layla happily bounced around, measuring liquids to make my drink as Luke supervised, shaking his head and biting down on his bottom lip. The poor guy didn’t have the heart to tell her how wrong she was.

With a flourish, Layla set a purply-orange drink in front of me and stuck a straw in it. She watched me intensely, bouncing on the tips of her toes while she waited for me to take a sip. I couldn’t help but glance at my brother, who stood behind his fiancée, his eyes giving me a warning that this was not going to be the best drink I’d ever had.

I plastered on a grin and angled in to take a sip. The description said something along the lines of mango and peaches. But this definitely tasted like mouthwash. Mouthwash that had been sitting in a cabinet for at least seven years.

I hummed and held back my gag. “Wow…so good, Lay.”

She clasped her hands in front of her chest. “Really? I’m so glad!” She turned to Luke. “You should hire me when I’m not writing.”

He placed a relaxed hand on her lower back and kissed her temple. “Maybe one day, little one. Can you go ask Alex if he needs help stocking in the back? I’ll be there in a sec.”

She smiled and nodded before turning back to me. “Don’t say I never gave you anything.” She pointed at the wretched drink in front of me.

Once she disappeared behind the door to the back room, I pinned my brother with a hard look. “You’ve got to tell her.”

He simply shrugged. “I can’t yet. She gets so excited. It’s adorable. She’s always made my coffee taste really good, so I assumed she’d be good at this too.”

“You were wrong.”

“I was wrong.” Laughing, he wiped down the surface of the already clean bar.

“So, you’re looking for somewhere to work?”

I took another sip of my awful drink, immediately regretted it, and pushed it away. “Yeah, preferably a position where I can utilize my degree. But my résumé isn’t very impressive. Waiting tables for kids’ birthday parties doesn’t translate to much in the sports marketing world. Neither does selling prom dresses, so my high school job doesn’t help much either.”

He nodded, pressing his tongue against his cheek. “You could work for me. Handle our social media, marketing, what not. Layla’s been doing it, but it takes away from her writing time. I bet she’d love a break.”

I scrunched my nose. Working for my brother and living with him? That was asking for way too much.

“Pay’s good; food’s good,” he said, resting his elbows on the bar. “And I can almost guarantee that there will be no mice. And you’ll never have to sing happy birthday to sticky, pizza-covered children.”

That did sound enticing. Managing social media for my brother’s bar would be a nice addition to my résumé. And it would give me some income while I looked for a job in the male-dominated sports marketing industry. But if I had some more experience under my belt…

“I’ll think about it. But I couldn’t live with you and work here. That’s asking too much of you. I’d need to find somewhere else to stay.”

He crossed his arms. “I don’t know. The only cheap rentals are out in the middle of nowhere, in places I really don’t want you staying by yourself—”

“Just stay with Nathan,” Layla said as she exited the wooden swinging door to our left.

Oh heavens, not Nathan.

The day Luke moved into an apartment with Nathan Huxley, I’d suffered the most uncomfortable first impression in history.

I’d shown up to “help” my brother move some things into his new place, but truthfully, I was there for moral support. And because Mom always made coconut cake when one of us moved, and it had been far too long since I’d had a taste.

But when I knocked on the fancy apartment door, instead of being greeted by my Star Wars–obsessed, glasses-wearing brother, I was treated to an entirely different sight.

A man, tall and captivating, lifted an arm to the doorframe and leaned against it. His white shirt stretched across his chest and tightened at his shoulders. I had to crane my neck to take him in as he loomed above me. On his head, he wore a black hat with a tiny Mickey Mouse stitched onto it. Cute, I’d thought. He was super, super cute. Cute actually didn’t cut it; he was downright book boyfriend material. The hero in the romantic comedy I had listened to on the way there had nothing on this guy. I nearly folded, my knees a little shaky, and I had a hard time standing my ground, a rare occurrence, considering men typically did not intimidate me.

“Oh.” The mystery man scanned me up and down with a small grin. “The modeling photographer actually lives a few doors down.”

Flattered, I dipped my chin and tucked a piece of hair behind my ear. “Actually, I—”

“Yeah, take that hallway to the right of the elevators. He’s four-one–three. This is four-three-one.”

“Sorry, I think—”

He took a step back and grasped the doorknob. “Don’t worry, happens all the time here. If you can’t find it, come back, and I’ll walk you over there.”

I opened my mouth to clarify, but he shut the door with a loud thunk before I could utter a word. I stood frozen, startled and disoriented by the abruptness of the action. He thought I was a model? A clueless model who couldn’t follow simple directions, I might add.

I knocked once more, and after some shuffling, the door opened again, revealing the same man.

“All right, darling. I’ll walk you there. Let me just get my Crocs—”

“Nathan, who is it?” Luke’s voice thundered from inside the apartment.

“Ah, one of Larry’s girls again.” This guy—Nathan, I assumed—shouted over his shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’m taking her—”

“Luke!” I shouted, popping up on my toes so I could see around the man crowding the doorway.

Nathan blinked at me as if I was a newspaper crossword puzzle he’d been working on for weeks and still hadn’t solved—brows furrowed, mouth beneath his dark scruff twisted into a confused pucker. He looked back at Luke, and then at me again.

Luke sidled up to Nathan and put a hand on his shoulder. “Dude. I told you she was coming.”

Nathan backed away, still looking lost, so Luke made introductions.

“Calla, this is Nathan. Nathan, my sister, Calla.”

Nathan still hadn’t stopped looking from me to Luke and back again, as though he couldn’t fathom our blood relation.

“Oh? Ohhh.” He stood straighter, the revelation finally piecing together in his mind. “I’m sorry. I-I didn’t mean—” he stuttered, his head shaking.

I smiled. “It’s okay, really. Not the first time I’ve had a door slammed in my face.”

“What?” Luke piped up. “You slammed the door in her face?”

“I…um…should probably have a better introduction.”

Nathan turned to me and stuck his arm out for what I mistakenly took as an apologetic side hug. So I turned my body, ready to lean into it. Only, the hug was more of a handshake, I suppose, which meant his hand landed on my left boob. In the most awkward of awkward moments, he tried to shake my boob.

Nathan’s face turned beet red. “Oh, that wasn’t meant to be like that. I didn’t mean to—I need to lie down,” he sputtered out before running deeper into the apartment. His exit was followed by the slamming of a door and a clicking of a lock.

Yeah, weird to say the least.

Each interaction after that got worse. He spilled water on me at Layla’s book signing and stared at me awkwardly during opening night at Romfuzzled. Once, I ran into him while on a coffee date. He was wearing socks with tiny red birds paired with Birkenstocks and greeted me with a “Howdy do.”

The oddest part was that I’d heard him on the phone with Layla more than once, and he was totally normal. Cool and collected. Laughing, talking like a standard human. He’d been in a dozen or more videos Layla made at work, and he never once shook a boob or stuttered out nonsense. Maybe that initial awkward meeting set a precedent when it came to me.

I shook my head and laughed. “Yeah, no. I’m not staying with him.”

Layla pouted. “Oh, he’s so sweet, though. Luke loved living with him. I think he still misses it.”

Luke rolled his eyes. “I miss seeing him, not living with him.” He turned to me and shrugged. “He is a great roommate, though.”

I grimaced. “Won’t that bother you? Me staying with your best friend?” I scrunched my nose like they’d suggested I take a shot of raw eggs.

Luke considered it for a moment and then shrugged. “Nah. Nathan’s the best. Clean, and he keeps to himself mostly. He’s only loud when he plays guitar, but if you ask, he’ll keep it down.”

He plays guitar? Welcome to Swoon City, population: me. How did I never know that?

I ran over the options in my head. I could live with Nathan in his fancy apartment with his stupid hot self or mooch off my brother and sister-in-law and become a life-sucking leech. My final option would be to accept my inevitable doom and find a very thick cardboard box outside the local Best Buy and transform it into my new habitat.

Reluctantly, I sighed. “Maybe just call him to see what he says?”

Really, how bad could living with my brother’s best friend be?