Good Girl (Love Unexpectedly 2)

For the first time in my life, I’ve finally figured out how to build a life that will make me happy. It’s not quite Vaughn’s two-kids version, but it’s clear to me now.

I want a contractor business, maybe building furniture on the side.

I want quiet and beer and work boots, and I want to buy my own truck after I return Finn’s, and I’d be perfectly happy to never have to wear a tie again in my life.

Most of all, I want anonymity. I want the simple, quiet life I had before I was Preston Walcott, heir to all sorts of shit I never asked for.

A life with Jenny would be the very opposite of all that.

And what about Ranger? Stupid Dolly fits easily into a purse, but I can’t be taking a Labrador on a plane or moving him around every time Jenny gets a burr up her ass to live in Hollywood or Nashville or Baton Rouge or Timbuktu.

And even if she did keep coming back to me…

Do I even want that?

I dig the heels of my hands into my eye sockets. It feels both ironic and unfair that my very reason for bunking with Jenny Dawson in the first place was to get some perspective on my life. I’ve spent my entire adulthood living by someone else’s rules. Torn between Noah and Preston, torn between the memory of my mom and the legacy of my dad.

Not once did anyone ask what I wanted.

Not once did I ask myself.

Hell, I couldn’t even commit to a name until recently. I was Preston to the people who wanted me to be Preston, Noah to the people who wanted me to be Noah.

And now…

Now I know.

I’m Noah Maxwell, and I want a simple life with a dog and never to have to wear a fucking suit and tie, or to go into an office, or schmooze at a charity event with people who make my skin crawl.

Now I’ve finally figured it out, and I’m supposed to give it up for what?

To be Jenny Dawson’s guy?

Just like I was Finn’s guy when I was at his pub, my mom’s guy at the trailer park, Vaughn’s guy at the country club, Dad’s guy at the office, Yvonne’s guy everywhere else?

I don’t want to belong to anyone but myself. I don’t want to live anyone’s life but my own.

And I do not fit into Jenny Dawson’s life. I’ve known it from the very beginning.

But damned if it didn’t feel like she was just starting to fit into mine.

Jenny

“That’s good, Jenny. Let’s just do it one

more time, that last chorus, ‘kay?” the producer says, leaning forward to speak into the microphone.

I give him a thumbs-up through the glass window, adjusting the headphones on my head slightly, since they start to squish my head after a while, and I’ve definitely been at this for a while.

Four straight days, in fact.

My label was thrilled to hear that I’d come back from the dead and was insistent on recording my new tracks as soon as possible.

A part of me knows the whole thing is rough, but I also know my music, and when it’s right, it’s right.

And this album is good. More than good. I can tell from the victory smiles on my team’s faces that they agree.

“Predator,” in particular, has been a favorite, already getting plenty of chatter about being my first single.