So That Happened (Donovan Family, #1)

by Katie Bailey

Bras with no underwire are all fun and games until you’re racing through a crowded airport, leaping over rogue suitcases like an Olympic hurdler as you wave your boarding pass in the air (uselessly) and yell “wait for me” (equally uselessly).

“Oh, don’t worry. I’m not a pervert,” I explain wheezily. “I bought this bra off a TikTok ad. Needless to say, it doesn’t really work.”

“I’m a sucker for those change-your-life marketing scams.”

But I’m one-eighth Canadian. And I’m late because I, a grown woman of twenty-six-and-a-half years old, just spent ten minutes hiding in the airport bathroom.

I, on the other hand, may know nothing of childhood sweethearts, but I did recently learn a valuable lesson about why you should never, ever get involved with someone you work with.

And this time, I know it’s directed at me. Seriously? I was, like, five minutes late. Seven, tops. Fine. Ten. But no more than eleven.

I made a string of mistakes that led me to lose everything I worked so hard for.

“And I can’t possibly think of why you think I’d want your opinion,” I retort. Because never mind not judging. I have every right to be the judgiest judge ever.

“Wooo!” she whisper-hisses. “I could feel that tension. I believe this is what Timber calls ‘a match.’”

I will live and die by the five-second rule. Ten seconds if it’s a food item I particularly like.

“Don’t give me that surprised look, sonny boy! I know you’re listening. And let me say that this wasn’t an accident. It means something; everything does. In fact, you should take Annie to dinner tonight!”

Stop the world, I want to get off!

I’m not good with first, or second, or even third impressions. My sister, Lana Mae, likes to say I’m an acquired taste. Like an anchovy. I hate anchovies.

“You’re completely right. I should’ve anticipated that someone would be moonwalking through the lobby and not see it. My mistake.”

think he’s being sarcastic. I can never tell with sarcasm. They say it’s the lowest form of wit, but I would argue that it’s actually quite advanced.

I just hate altercations like this. I get way too flustered and can’t think straight and say the wrong thing and spend hours in the shower later dissecting the incident and thinking of all the wittier things I could’ve said.

Yup, Manson. Like the serial killer. They’re not related, though. I googled it once to make sure.

Meanwhile, Annie—my self-proclaimed new girlfriend with terrible timekeeping skills and apparently equally terrible basic motor skills—looks downright sympathetic to the front desk clerk’s woes.

And it’s kind of fun to push his buttons, poke the bear. What can I say? I live life on the edge.

Say hi to Raj for me. Remember him? Your loving husband? Prisha: Of course I do. He’s right here beside me reading this whole conversation. He’s very invested and wants me to let you know that he hopes you don’t die because he actually quite likes you.

“It is,” I say finally. “But it is what it is and isn’t what it isn’t.” Wow, I should be a philosopher.

Forget bloodsuckers, and hellooooo Charlie Swan eye-candy, I say.

“Hi.” She glances at her wristwatch, and then—I kid you not—she says, “glad you could finally join us.”

“if a woman behaved like that in the workplace, everyone would assume she had PMS. But when a man does it, it’s considered sexy and powerful.”

Yup, I can do silence. I can definitely do silence. Nooo big deal…. “Did you know there are one quadrillion ants on planet Earth?” Oh, awesome. What a normal thing to say.

But when his eyes meet mine, there’s a glimmer of softness that wasn’t there before. One that suggests he maybe, just maybe, might be reevaluating his assessment of me from “little weirdo” to “charming little weirdo.”

I’m not sure I’m capable of seeing any way other than mine, but Annie makes me want to try. And that’s more than I can say for most people.

She’s in my office, and she’s in my head. Big time. And now that I’m actually admitting that to myself, I’m not sure how I feel about it.

My stomach stirs as I remember the tension that zapped through me as we stood next to each other. Butterflies, I believe people call them.

There’s a special place in hell for small talk. Right next to people who drive below the speed limit in the fast lane, and door-to-door salespeople. Bothering people in their homes—the nerve.

Annie, who’s late for everything and makes a fool out of herself by speaking before she thinks. Annie, who manages to laugh it all off and move on because life’s short, and if you get tripped up, the only way to keep going is to get right back up.

“Vulnerability is not about winning or losing, it's about having the courage to show up even when you can't control the outcome.”

Behind her head, Luke points at Annie, then points at me, and makes an obscene gesture.

But love isn’t neat or orderly, is it? So, the first thing I need to do when I get back to the city tomorrow is rewrite the rules. Color outside the lines. Stop living in fear of what might happen if I just let go.

“It could never be a mistake to love you, Annie. Loving you is a privilege. An honor I don’t take lightly. And I want to keep on loving you every single day, for the rest of my days.”

But loving Liam Donovan has been the most perfectly imperfect journey of my life so far. The best happy accident ever. And I want to remember it always.