Chapter 3 Wendy’s POV

As they walked in, I got the usual greeting: “Fuck you for making us look like shit, Wendy.” Now fully awake, I smirked and shot back, “Maybe you guys should start waking up at 5 a.m. if you want a chance at keeping up with me.”

A few more muttered “Fuck you’s followed as they trudged upstairs to shower.

After they cleared upstairs, I too hopped in the shower, letting the hot water wash away the morning run.

Afterward, as I stepped out of the bathroom, and checked my phone and noticed a missed call from my dad.

Mark McNaulty—a mountain of a man. Growing up, he held me to the highest standards, whether in sports, academics, or social status. Perfection wasn’t just encouraged; it was expected. Anything less was an unspoken disappointment.

But oddly, I never blamed him for it. Never resented him. He was doing his best, overcompensating after my mom left us—for the bottle, for a Rockefeller lifestyle, for a revolving door of men. He played the hand he was dealt, and depending on who you ask, I turned out to be a well-adjusted adult. For that, I credit him.

Over time, I realized my abandonment issues made it hard to feel close to women. I always felt safer with men, even when they were completely wrong for me. So, living with two guys? Yeah, that tracks.

Conversations with my dad are always the same. He asks how I’m doing, how work is going, if I’m still running. Then we drift into small talk until one of us finds an excuse to hang up.

He doesn’t really know how to talk to me. I know he loves me, but at this point, it feels more like an obligation than a genuine desire for a relationship—especially now that I’m older and I’m not financially dependent.

I’ll call him back eventually, just so he wouldn’t worry. But now wasn’t the time.

I toweled off and wrapped my towel around me. I ran some product through my hair, hit it with a blow dryer so it wasn’t sopping wet then tied my long dark hair in a long loose braid down my right side topped with my favorite Sox hat, and swiped on some light makeup around my eyes. Stepped into some denim shorts to show off my long and muscular legs, a lightweight sweatshirt, and my favorite red Chucks.

I stepped out in the living room and I could hear the guys finishing up upstairs. Then it hit me like a brick wall - I could smell their cologne spilling over the balcony and dancing around the condo. Very woodsy and smokey - a very masculine scent. I had to admit it was very sexy. “Jesus are you guys almost ready? You take longer than I do to get ready - hurry up!” I teased. I got a few more “fuck you’s” out of that one. I smirked.

We had plans to hit the nearby farmers market—partly to stock up on ingredients for sunday night dinner, partly to indulge Grady’s ridiculous farm-to-fork obsession, and mostly just to catch up on the week.

Naturally, going anywhere with these two always comes with assumptions. The most common? That I’m dating Scott, or that Grady and I are siblings.

Grady and I do share a lot of similar features—dark hair, olive skin, tall, obviously athletic. Scott is naturally pretty protective over me so there’s a closeness we share when we are out in public. So it’s definitely not a stretch to see why people jump to such conclusions.

While the boys wandered off in their own direction, I took my time browsing through the handmade items and little trinkets—my guilty pleasure.

I’ve always had a crafty streak, but I could never stick with anything long enough to truly commit. So I usually just dabbled, picking up random projects on a whim whenever inspiration struck.

While I was sorting through one of the local vendors booths for custom leather work, I heard a deep raspy belly laugh that pulled my eyes immediately to just behind the booth where the group of guys were standing talking and laughing in the parking lot behind the row of tents and booths where all of the vendors parked. The laugh that caught my attention came from a man that was a corn fed kind of guy. Beard. Gauges. Full sleeve tattoos. Tall stature and unique looking. Different. Not my usual type but I guess he wasn’t awful looking. Hipster lumber jack with a man bun. I guess my type was more athletic and polished, if I generalized it.

Truth be told my “type” was a moving target. It changed with the day and shifted with the weather - it was honestly more personality based. I wanted to connect with someone mentally before I could ever commit to them sexually. Now I am tall, so certain physical attributes were a requirement. But the unseen qualities carried far more weight.

I stared for a bit and it’s like he felt my eyes on him because he glanced over at me in that same moment, so I locked eyes and half smiled - immediately questioning my decision to look in the first place when he flashed a soft smile back.