by Ellie Cahill
The Designated +1
A Romantic Comedy
Ellie Cahill
Contents
Also by Ellie Cahill
1. Breaking & Annoying
2. A Little Dog Music
3. The Dog Days Are Never Over
4. Getting to Re-Know You
5. The Singles’ Table and Other Instruments of Torture
6. The Designated +1
7. I Want to Hold Your Hand
8. The Pseudo-Girlfriend Experience
9. There Will Be Licking
10. The Big Lie
11. Hadley’s Involuntary Bed & Breakfast
12. Red Flags and How to Ignore Them
13. DIY: Destroy It Yourself
14. Uber Is Just Organized Hitchhiking
15. Drunk-Sitting Doesn’t Pay Well
16. At Least You’re Not Bleeding
17. Public Humiliation on the Rocks
18. Bad Kisses and Mandatory Fun
19. And Then They Attacked
20. It Can Always Get More Awkward
21. Who Needs Common Sense?
22. A Cute Little Wedding in the Middle of God Damn Nowhere
23. Adulting, Unless There’s Syrup
24. There’s An Asshole Born Every Minute
25. A Great Opportunity to Make a Bad Decision
26. The Eat Your Heart Out Dress
27. For Better or For Worse
28. Until Jerk Do Us Part
29. Fuck Politeness
30. Nobody Puts Hadley in a Corner
31. When In Doubt, A Puppy
One Year Later
Also by Ellie Cahill
Acknowledgments
About the Author
ALWAYS BE FIRST. JOIN THE NEWSLETTER.
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ALSO BY ELLIE CAHILL
I Temporarily Do
Just a Girl
Call Me, Maybe
When Joss Met Matt
AS LIZ CZUKAS
Ask Again Later
Top Ten Clues You’re Clueless
Throwing My Life Away
Uploading this or any digital copy of this book to an unauthorized site without permission of the author is a violation of copyright and a pretty dick move.
To Alex and Annabelle,
who can’t read but remain extremely supportive
1
Breaking & Annoying
Estelle and Getty lifted their furry heads at the same moment. That was nothing new; the bichons alerted to every little thing. Then Getty let out a sharp bark, hopping to her feet, followed by Estelle, and I heard it, too: the front door opening and the sound of heavy footsteps. My heart leapt into my throat. Please don’t let me be murdered in a James god damned Brady’s house wearing Cookie Monster pajamas.
I cocked my head, listening hard. I was used to feeling jumpy in client’s houses when I dog-sat. Everyone’s houses have their own little quirks and make spooky night time noises that the owners aren’t even aware of.
Then the front door closed. That was no trick of my ears. That wasn’t the sound of a furnace kicking on.
The footsteps started up again, and I looked around the kitchen in a panic. Run away or try to defend myself?
Estelle and Getty barked, trotting out of the kitchen with curiosity. Part of me wanted to call them back, try to protect them from the intruder, but I didn’t want to alert him to my presence. I tiptoed across the kitchen to draw the long chef’s knife out of the wooden block on the counter before continuing toward the back hall. I could make it to the back door, I was certain, but would the sound of opening it be worth the risk?
One of the bichons started barking, and a male voice said, “Shut up, Getty.”
He knew the dog’s name? And which one was which? I hesitated, the knife trembling in my hand.
The footsteps got louder and suddenly a figure appeared in the archway. He was tall, wide, and absolutely filthy.
I screamed and made an idiotic slashing motion in front of me with the knife, despite the twenty feet of floor space between us.
He screamed, letting a duffle bag fall, and dropping into a crouch with his hands raised protectively in front of his face. Estelle and Getty took the opportunity to jump up, resting their paws on his shoulders and licking his face, their poofy white tails wagging a mile a minute.
“Get off me,” he shouted, batting the bichons away.
“What do you want?” I screamed.
“Me? What do you want?” He raised his head, giving me a clearer view of his face for the first time.
Recognition clicked. “Will?” I asked, incredulously.
Will Brady squinted at me. “Hadley Bradley?”
The tip of the knife drooped, but I didn’t put it down. My entire body was still racing with adrenaline. Although now a dash of annoyance joined the race. Hearing my first and last name together never failed to irk me. “What are you doing here?”
“I live here!” he protested, knocking Getty away again as the little white dog attempted to resume licking his face.
“No, you don’t.”
He rose to his feet. “My parents do. What the hell are you doing here?”
“I’m watching Estelle and Getty while your parents are in Mexico.”
“You are?” Will popped one knee out, blocking Estelle’s attempt to rest her paws on his leg. Estelle yapped in indignation. “Shush,” he told her.
“Yeah. I’ve been here for two days.” As if my temporary occupation somehow trumped this being his family home.
“What the…? Why didn’t they ask me?” He shook his head. The dogs were still hopping around his feet, standing on their back paws and waving their front paws in the air as if they were worshipping him. They let out occasional barks and loud, rapid panting when he ignored them.
“How should I know?” I snapped. Estelle barked and went down into play pose. “Would you just say hello to them? You’re making them nuts.”
“They were already nuts,” he said, but he bent over to give each dog a perfunctory pat on the head. “Yes. Hi. Happy? Now shut the hell up.” He straightened and looked at me with a squint. “Are you planning to stab me?”
“What? Oh!” I looked down at the knife in my hand as if I didn’t know I’d been holding it. “No. I mean, unless you were planning to kill me?”
“Not if you don’t stab me.” He held up both hands in surrender.
“Okay, then.” I set the knife on the nearest counter.
Will’s eyes followed the knife until it was safely out of my hand, then he looked at me. “I can’t believe my parents didn’t tell me that Hadley Bradley was staying in our house.”
A word about my name. Yes, it rhymes. Yes, that sucks. My parents’ excuse? They loved the name Hadley, and they figured someday I’d get married and have a new last name anyway, so why not use the name they loved? Thanks, Mom and Dad. A lifetime of teasing is definitely worth the neat-o first name. Oh and also, way to force your kid into a patriarchal system at birth.
I ignored Will’s use of both names, a skill I’d had to work years to perfect. “What are you even doing here?” It made no sense. If Will was available and close enough by to drop in to the house, why hadn’t Mr. and Mrs. Brady just had him stay with the dogs?
“I need a shower,” he said, as if it were obvious. And it kind of was. Will was a straight-up mess. His gray Brady Construction t-shirt was sweat- and dirt-stained to the point that I couldn’t be sure if it was actually gray, as were his jeans and work boots. His arms, neck, and face were darkened with dirt, with rivulets of sweat making clean streaks down from his hairline. Even his blond hair was dirty. Only fai
nt circles around his hazel eyes appeared untouched by his day of work, indicating that he’d been wearing sunglasses or safety gear.
“Why don’t you shower at home?” I asked.
“Are you trying to throw me out of my own house, Hadley Bradley?”
The first-last name thing had my teeth on edge. “No! I’m just…why are you here?”
“It is my house,” he said, crossing his arms. “Tell you what. I’m gonna go shower. You can interrogate me when I’m done, okay?”
“I’m not interrogating you,” I said indignantly.
“Well, whatever. Shower first. Then questions.” He scooped his duffle bag off the floor, blocking Estelle and Getty from another round of face-licking, then clomped past me to get a bottle of water out of the refrigerator on his way out of the kitchen. He disappeared into the hallway for a second before poking his head back through the archway. “Nice shorts, by the way.”
My hands automatically splayed wide over my Cookie Monster shorts, a new injection of embarrassed adrenaline rushing into my bloodstream. “Bite me,” I muttered to his retreating back.
He poked his head in again, this time pointing to his chin. “Oh, and you got a little something right here.”
My hand flew up to the spot before I could stop myself. Will grinned and disappeared again.
I felt like a 15-year-old version of myself had somehow been transported into my body. Every minute that I’d spent crawling out from under the specter of being Hadley Bradley all through my childhood was wasted when it came to facing one of the Brady boys. I was a short, gawky, freckle-covered, late-blooming redhead with braces in his presence. Everyone’s little sister. The tag-along of the neighborhood. The one the older kids got stuck with when my mom made them play with me.
Didn’t matter that I’d finally won a years’ long battle with puberty. Who cared that I didn’t have braces anymore? What did it matter that I had boobs and hips now that I was twenty-two? What difference did it make that I could no longer be considered a band geek? Nope. I was Hadley Bradley, wearing Sesame Street shorts, and hanging out with the neighborhood dogs.
And apparently, I also had something on my face.
I snatched the knife off the counter and used the blade as a mirror to inspect my chin. Yep, sure enough. I had a smudge of chocolate there. This is what happens when you’re alone in the house with a tube of cookie dough in the fridge and only two small white dogs to consult on whether or not you should eat it.
Spoiler alert: I’d eaten it.
A few minutes later, I heard the sound of the shower running upstairs and I groaned. Will was in the same bathroom I’d been using this whole time. I had my stuff scattered all over the counter, and my bottles of shampoo and conditioner were sitting inside the tub. Will was going to see that I used a product called Big Sexy Hair. Great. That was just great.
I hadn’t seen Will Brady in years. We’d grown up in the same neighborhood—my parents’ house was just about a block away from here—and my older brother Mason was best friends with Will’s older brother, James. So I’d known Will and the rest of the Brady family for almost as long as I could remember. There were a bunch of kids in our neighborhood growing up, and somehow I’d managed to be the only one between the two big age groups. The older kids, including my brother, all hung around together. Same with the younger ones. Of course I wanted to be with the older kids. And of course all the parents wanted me to babysit the younger ones instead. Ugh.
After I went away to college, I didn’t see much of the Brady family. Partly it was because I was gone. So was my brother and so were the Brady boys. But partly it was because I had couldn’t really stand to see them. Not after what I did.
See, ever since I was 12, and James Brady was 16, I’d been in love with him. He was tall, and handsome, and older. And he had a smile that turned my knees to water. I wanted him to love me back, but at 12, with braces, red hair that still felt like a curse, and no boobs, I knew he couldn’t possibly see that I was the one for him. So I waited. I bided my time until I was 18 years old. James was 22 then, and he’d just graduated from Texas A&M. I thought I was ready. I waited until the end of his graduation party—right here in the backyard of this very house. I managed to get him alone, and screwing up all my courage, I told him that I’d had a crush on him all these years. I said I’d been waiting for the right time to tell him. I said, “I like you so much. I think I’m in love with you.”
How did he respond? He patted me on the head. Patted. Me. On. The. Head. And he said, “Aw, you’ve always been such a cute kid.”
You can understand why I wasn’t real keen on staying in touch after that.
And yet, here I was, back in the Brady house. A great big college graduate, living that Millennial dream of moving back into my mom’s house and supporting myself by dog sitting and dog walking.
At least I had boobs now.
I wiped the chocolate off my chin and put the big knife away. I hadn’t been able to imagine myself stabbing anyone. Not for real, but I sort of thought I’d be a little more scary with the knife in my hand. Maybe if it had been anyone but Will Brady walking through the door.
With a sigh, I put the rest of the cookie dough back in the fridge and busied myself putting my spoon in the dishwasher and starting the wash cycle. I half-hoped the machine was use up all the hot water and water pressure, making Will’s shower miserable, but I didn’t hear any shrieks of surprise from upstairs, so I guessed the water heater was smarter than that.
It was on my mind to change out of my Cookie Monster shorts, but that would entail going upstairs and risking a run-in with Will in god-only-knows what state. Plus, I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of thinking he’d gotten to me. That was the surest way to earn more teasing, as any professional little sister will tell you.
Instead, I went into the open concept family room and curled up on the couch, taking command of the remote. Estelle and Getty were totally on board. They hopped on the couch and tucked themselves inconveniently against me on either side. Estelle was especially fond of laying on my tucked up feet, then complaining if I moved at all.
I’d just started watching a documentary about the famous Robert Durst murders when Will reappeared in the kitchen. He was clean now, and looked considerably less dangerous not streaked with dirt. His sandy blonde hair was tousled on top, and the scruff on his chin turned out to be the same shade of sun-streaked blonde now that he wasn’t covered in filth. His skin was deeply tanned over his muscular frame.
“Wow.” The word slipped out of my mouth. “You look different.”
“So do you,” he said.
“No, I mean, from before. You’re clean.”
He grinned. “Yeah. So’s your chin.”
I scowled at him, and he laughed. Man, I was out of practice dealing with older brother types. With Mason in the military, I didn’t even have my own brother to keep me in fighting shape.
“So, what do they have to eat around here?” Will crossed to the fridge and began to browse.
“Why don’t you eat at home?” I asked.
“I am home,” he reminded me.
I huffed out a sigh and decided to go back to my documentary. Will obviously had no intention of telling me anything, or being anything but annoying. I hit play on the remote and turned the volume up. With any luck, there would be gruesome murder details and crime scene photos right away. Most people couldn’t stand that stuff. I could only hope Will was one of them and then he’d leave.
Instead he said, “Oh man, this show was so great. Did you finish it yet?”
I hit pause and gave him a look. “No. That’s why I’m watching it.” Play.
He banged around in the kitchen for a few minutes, then came into the family room and flopped down on the couch with a sandwich in one hand.
Pause. “What are you a monkey? How about a plate?”
“’S’my house,” he said with food in his mouth.
Estelle got off my feet to trot do
wn the couch and sit expectantly looking at Will’s sandwich.
“See? You’re going to make a mess. Estelle knows it.”
“And Estelle will clean it up.”
“Ugh.” Play.
He didn’t say anything else while he ate—which took all of five minutes, even with some pretty rough crime scene photos on the screen—and then he got up and started flipping through the pile of mail at the end of the counter.
“Ah, fuck,” he muttered.
Pause. I looked deliberately over at him. “Something wrong?”
He held up a cream-colored envelope with curly cursive writing on the front. I couldn’t read it from the couch, but the signs were all there: wedding invitation. I’d gotten half a dozen of them myself in the last few months. In fact, I recognized this particular envelope in his hand.
“Together with their parents, Cressida Anne and Leon Michael invite you to join in their celebration of love…” I didn’t remember the exact wording of the invitation, but I knew I was in the ballpark.
Will looked confused. “Who the hell are they?”
“It’s Mike Radnor.” Another friend from the neighborhood.
Will chuckled. “Oh man, I always forget his name is really Leon.” He tore the envelope open and skimmed the details, then sighed. “Why are none of them on the same day? Why can I always go?”
“Seriously,” I agreed.
He held the square card up. “You going to this one?”