Page 5 of Not Just Gal Pals

I shook my head, smiling. God, he was hopeless. But he was hopeless in a lovable, well-meaning way, which made it impossible to fire him. And of course, the fact he was my dad added an extra layer of difficulty. He’d retired from the bank a couple of years ago. But after about three months of retirement—during which he’d driven Mom, who’d retired five years earlier from teaching and gotten used to having the house to herself, up the wall—both Dad and Mom agreed it was best he returned to work. It just so happened that decision coincided with my homecoming. When I announced that I needed a receptionist, Mom immediately submitted his resumé for my consideration.

From Dad’s perspective, it was the perfect job. He got to spend time with his eldest daughter, chit-chat with my patients, and during his lunch break, he’d wander down Main Street to meet his buddies at the pub for a steak or pop into my sister Olivia’s flower shop to say hi. Mom was thrilled she had the house to herself again, to read in peace and potter around the garden without interruption. And the arrangement had its benefits for me as well. I hadn’t liked the idea of relying on someone I didn’t know or trust to help manage my practice. But I trusted Dad completely, despite his incompetence when it came to technology. I could also pay him minimum wage without feeling guilty, because I knew he didn’t need the money. That was an enormous relief, given money was tight. And with that thought, the headache I’d been fending off all afternoon with a concoction of ibuprofen and acetaminophen picked up, throbbing behind my temples.

I refocused my attention on Mrs. Alvarez’s application, but before I’d made much progress, my phone pinged. and a message lit up my screen.

Hi, this is Jenny. Amanda mentioned you might need some help with the bachelorette party?

I sighed. Jenny Lynton was not who I needed right now. After a long day and the headache that showed no sign of subsiding, I wasn’t in the mood for painful social encounters. And a painful social encounter was almost guaranteed when it came to Jenny.

I’d had a crush on Jenny since I was fourteen, when the zip on my backpack malfunctioned just before a math exam, trapping all my pens inside. She’d seen me struggling with the zip outside the exam room and offered to help. As she knelt beside me and made a valiant effort to dislodge the zip, I went from freaking out that I’d be late to being transfixed by Jenny’s face, deep in concentration. The adorably furrowed brow and pursed lips. The intensity of her blue eyes focused on the zip. When that failed, she lent me two of her pens, handing them over with a radiant smile that made me weak at the knees. I couldn’t believe my luck when she came out as bi a year later.

Unfortunately, ever since the zip incident, in Jenny’s presence I transformed from normal, confident Blake to awkward, shy Blake who somehow always said the wrong thing or said nothing at all. My brain had a tendency to blank in her vicinity. I could tell Jenny wasn’t my biggest fan, and I didn’t blame her. I was a mess around her.

When Jenny had sauntered into the auditorium earlier, without a care in the world, all those familiar, disconcerting feelings came flooding back. My heart picked up pace, and I suddenly became very aware of how I was sitting and my facial expression. Was I all hunched over? What should I do with my hands? Was I looking at her funny? It was like we were back in high school again. Okay, yes, we were physically back in high school, but seeing Jenny transported me emotionally and mentally back there as well.

One benefit of your high school crush becoming a social media influencer was that it made it very easy to follow (I preferred that word over “stalk”) her career from afar. So, while I’d hardly seen Jenny in person since graduation, I’d thought about her. A lot.

Checking Jenny’s TikTok and Instagram accounts was one of my guilty pleasures, albeit one I tried not to do too frequently because it did feel slightly creepy. It turned out all the traits that had attracted me to her in high school—she was outgoing, funny, warm, genuine, and I had to admit, super hot—also attracted millions of fans on TikTok and Instagram. Of course, today on the panel, all the kids loved her.

I massaged my forehead. While I didn’t need all the emotions Jenny Lynton stirred up right now, I did desperately need help with Amanda’s bachelorette party, and as Amanda’s closest friend and someone who—based on her Instagram feed, at least—was a skilled entertainer, Jenny was the perfect person to help me.

I stared at my phone, my thumb hovering over the keyboard.

As much as I hated asking anyone for help, especially Jenny Lynton, I really didn’t want to screw this up for Amanda. Planning parties was not my strength.

I took a deep breath, swallowed my pride, and shot off a text.

Thanks. Are you free tonight? Builders Arms at 7?

The bachelorette party was on Saturday, just three days from now. If I was going to accept Jenny’s help, I needed to do it quickly. The insurance paperwork would just have to wait.

* * *

I pushed the door open and looked around the gorgeous old pub. Wooden beams crisscrossed the ceiling, matching the dark oak floors. Exposed red brick walls and two cozy log fires added warmth to the interior. Builders Arms was always busy, and tonight was no exception. Half the town seemed to be enjoying their craft beer and delicious food, which, in my opinion, rivaled New York City’s finest gourmet pubs. Despite my nerves, my stomach rumbled at the thought.

I spotted Jenny sitting at a circular table near the back of the pub, staring at her phone, and the rumbling in my stomach was replaced with churning. I took a deep, fortifying breath and attempted a cool saunter over to her, immediately walking into the corner of a table. Ouch. Pain shot through my thigh. Very cool, Blake. My eyes darted over to Jenny, who thankfully still had her head down and hadn’t witnessed my lack of coordination.

I collected myself and hobbled the remaining four feet to the table, my heart thumping. Jenny was so absorbed in her phone, frowning in either concentration or concern, she didn’t notice I was standing awkwardly right in front of her.

Jenny looked as good in real life as she did on my phone, her long blond hair falling in waves down her back, wearing a colorful jumpsuit that flattered her curves, with a cozy, soft-looking cardigan over it. I had an alarming urge to reach out and stroke it. Keep your arms by your sides, Blake. It was a strange sensation to be this close to someone I’d primarily only seen on my phone screen for the last decade. She was so...three dimensional.

I cleared my throat. “Hi,” I said, slightly strangled. I swallowed.

Jenny looked up from her phone. Her blue eyes connected with mine, instantly erasing all my social and language skills. Shit.

“Hi,” she said, a wary smile on her face as she stood up.

How did Jenny always manage to look like she’d made absolutely no effort but still be fucking gorgeous? Meanwhile, I’d spent thirty minutes picking out my outfit for the panel because Amanda mentioned this morning that Jenny would be there.

She was still standing, and I realized I’d been staring at her for a beat too long. Multiple beats too long. Oh god. What was the social etiquette when meeting your unrequited high school crush for a bachelorette planning session? Should I hug her? Shake hands? Sit down? Mumble a pathetic excuse and sprint out of the pub? The last option held a strong appeal right now, although I wasn’t sure my bruised thigh would allow for a speedy exit.

It was ridiculous that, in my early thirties, with an Ivy League medical degree under my belt, a pretty woman could reduce me to a blubbering mess. Well, not just any pretty woman. Jenny. Not even my ex, Grace, had this effect on me.

To my relief, Jenny sat down, and I followed suit. The chair had a grounding effect, pressing into my back and legs and reminding me I was human and capable of basic human interactions. My brain started whirring, and some vocabulary returned.

“Have you ordered?” I picked up the menu and studied it intently—even though I knew exactly what I wanted to order—thankful it gave me something to do with my hands. And my eyes. While not a long-term strategy, avoiding eye contact with Jenny gave me an opportunity to finish pulling myself together.

“No, I was waiting for you. Are you hungry? If you are, I might grab a burger.”