Chapter 1 Wendy’s POV

My eyes were still closed, but I was already aware of my surroundings, caught in that perfect morning limbo where the bed feels impossibly cozy, and the warmth of the covers is too perfect to disturb. Even the slightest movement—or the mere thought of it—could ruin everything.

As I lay frozen in my little cocoon, the scent of warm, processed blueberries drifted through the air. From the living room, the sound of a sports show murmured in the background. Scott and Grady were already up, moving around with their usual morning energy. If I had to guess, it was around 6:45 a.m., just minutes before Scott would come in, Pop-Tarts in hand, ready to bribe me out of my cave.

A few years ago, I was a record-setting distance runner at Duke. I was one of the boys—often seen as a “bro.” While I had a few female teammates I studied with occasionally, there was always a sense of distance between us that I struggled to bridge. My competitive nature made it hard to form close friendships with other women, even among fellow athletes, as I often found they didn’t share the same level of drive and intensity. Competing against them felt too easy; I wanted to push myself beyond that, to be better than the guys. Whenever possible, I trained alongside them—and often beat them. Their coaches always loved that…

As I fought to keep my eyes closed, I heard footsteps approaching, each step bringing them closer to my door. Then came the familiar creak of the hinges, followed by a now overwhelming wave of warm blueberry flooding my room. “Wenddyyy good morning” Scott almost sang. As a I perked up to greet him, Dammit… my perfectly cozy spot in bed was ruined.

Scott leaned on the edge of my mattress, holding out my Pop-Tarts like a peace offering, “wake up champ we are about to head out” bribing me to get up for our morning run with him and Grady. “Uggh I don’t wanna…. But fuck, gimme those they smell so good!” I groaned. “There’s our sunshine girl!” As he trotted off back to the kitchen I heard him teasingly

Say to Grady “We got Miss Congeniality on our hands this morning…”

For the last seven years, we had been running partners. Back in college, they were sprinters, but for some reason, they had always loved training distance with me on weekends and evenings.

Scott and Grady had grown up together in a small Texas town outside of Dallas, running on the same 4x400 relay team and winning three consecutive state titles.

“Could’ve been four if Scott wasn’t a prick, trying to chase his bullshit baseball dreams freshman year,” Grady would grumble—so often and with such conviction that he might as well have gotten “could’ve been four” tattooed somewhere.

They were the definition of a dream team—the perfect duo, both on the track and off, and the kind of best friends you rarely come across. They were more like brothers.

Grady Moore stood at about 6’2”, and he was a specimen. Built like a damn river barge —but oddly so lean that if he claimed to have 0% body fat, I would believe him. It made sense, considering he was a total health nut.

Everything he ate was organic and some shade of green. If he ate meat, it had to be lean, trimmed, and grass-fed. His mornings started with an organic protein shake, followed by freshly made juice—because he refused to buy anything pre-made.

He swore his body was a temple. But when it came to women… well, let’s just say his standards for them weren’t quite as strict.

Grady was a playboy, fully aware of it and in no way, shape, or form ready to commit. So naturally, he only slept with the kind of women he knew he would never marry—eliminating any risk of attachment before it even had a chance to form.

He had a type—or rather, no type at all. Petite blondes, thick redheads, statuesque model-types with little going on between the ears, sweet Southern belles, sorority girls, trust fund babies, ambitious career women, tattooed free spirits—even one who I’m convinced was in a motorcycle gang.

There were church girls, the occasional intellectual, and that one woman from the young professionals networking group who lingered a little longer than most. For a moment, we thought she might be different. But he never introduced us - which was his MO in the morning after charade.

His one-night stands always followed the same routine. The standard goodbye kiss in our living room, their clothes from the night before slightly rumpled. “I had a really great time with you, I’d love to see you again soon I’ll call you!” Usually followed with a kiss as he shuffled them out the door. The bold ones tried to stick around and make cringey conversation, wearing his T-shirt like a badge of honor, as if it meant something. But Grady was always quick, ushering them out so fast it was comical. He never let things linger long enough for us to bother remembering names. “Another day another lay” he’d say after he closed the door as if he was mentally tallying it up. Then he’d run off to shower or shit hopefully pray to something to repent.

Grady was a character. He had shorter dark curly hair with mocha colored eyes, pouty lips, gorgeous smile, dimples and a strong jaw line.

He had a Clark Kent persona - this brilliant IT geek by day and complete womanizer by night. He was giving hometown, boy next door / fuck boy kind of vibes. Despite being a total womanizer - Grady was actually an amazing guy. He was a rock for the few people he let into his heart. Scott was as valuable to him as his left testicle, and I… well, I was his Wendy. He’d do just about anything for us. We were his family.

Being that they were from Texas - he had a touch of a southern drawl that he could flip on and off depending on his audience. I swear people from that state are just born different. Bigger people. Better athletes. Strange mannerisms.