Page 5 of Unmanageable

I’m very, very worried.

But, maybe the van won’t actually be orange. Maybe pigs will fly. Maybe Cash will stop flirting with me.

Right?

2

Scottie Elise Reed

The bakery in downtown Boston is far too bright for ten in the morning, and it smells aggressively of buttercream.

My tolerance for whimsy is incredibly short today. By the time the third tray of samples arrives I’m ready to kill myself and everyone within a five-foot distance.

Across the table, Iveline and Callahan are leaning into each other, their foreheads almost touching as they debate whether the filling of a sponge cake can truly taste “cloud-like.”

They look sickeningly happy, which is great for them—really, it’s heartwarming—but it’s making the logistics of the seating chart much, much harder to manage.

“Scottie, try the red velvet,” Ivy says, pushing a plate toward me.

I take a bite, but before I can even swallow, a shadow falls over the table, effectively blocking the overhead lights.

“It’s a lie, you know.”

Finnian “Cash” O’Connell slides into the empty chair right next to me. He sits too close, his thigh pressing against mine, entirely too comfortable.

“What?” I frown, setting my fork down with a sharp clack against the china.

“The cake,” Cash says, eyeing my plate with something bordering on disdain. “This stuff is a scam. It’s just chocolate cake with identity issues and an entire bottle of red forty.”

He shifts his focus, looking over at Ivy with a dazzling, practiced grin. “Morning, Coach.”

Ivy lets out a weary, fond laugh, shaking her head. “Cash, please. I haven’t been your coach for years.”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, leaning back and crossing his arms, his biceps straining against his shirt. “Old habits, Ivy. You’ll always be the one who taught me how to stop a puck without losing my soul.”

“Go away, Cash,” I say, pulling my planner closer, as if creating a physical barrier between his proximity and my sanity. “Go find a puck to hit. Go sit in a dark room and visualize a world where you don’t annoy me. Do something that doesn’t involve talking to me.”

“I like it when you’re bossy,” he leans in closer, his voice dropping to a low whisper. “It’s kind of hot.”

“I hate you,” I deadpan.

We are both grown-ass adults; this level of juvenile baiting should be beneath us, yet here we are, behaving like we’re in the back of a middle school bus.

“Ivy, tell him to leave.”

Ivy sighs, rubbing her temples. “Cash, stop flirting with my best friend.”

“I can’t help it, Coach,” he says, his gaze lingering on me. “She’s the only one who doesn’t worship me. It’s a turn-on.”

“Finnian, I will shove this planner so far up your—”

“See?” Cash gestures at me with his chin. “She loves it.”

“Can everyone act like adults for like ten minutes?” Dean asks, sliding a fresh coffee onto the table and claiming the chair next to Ivy.

“Dean, thank God. Tell him to be normal,” I plead.

“You’re asking for a miracle, Scottie,” Dean says, not even looking up from his phone. He glances at the chaotic web of sticky notes on the seating chart and frowns. “Why is Uncle Evan next to the DJ?”