I keep my arms crossed, keep my face unreadable. “Then you’d better hope I never want to.”
She leaves without another word, the faint scent of her perfume hanging in the air long after the door clicks shut. I stand there for a moment, staring at that card like it might bite me.
Then I slide it into the drawer and lean against the counter.
“You okay?” Mac’s voice cuts through the quiet, low but steady. I turn to find him leaning in the doorway, one shoulderbraced against the frame, knuckles still pink from where they met Donovan’s jaw.
“I’m fine,” I say, but my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.
He studies me for a beat, like he’s measuring whether to call me on the lie. “You know you don’t have to do this alone.”
My lips twitch, not quite a smile. “Funny. Alone feels a hell of a lot safer right now.”
His eyes soften, but he doesn’t push. “Safer doesn’t always mean better.” He glances toward the door where Elaine disappeared. “Just… be careful which snakes you let keep their fangs.”
I let out a quiet breath, not sure if it’s a laugh or a sigh. “Duly noted.”
He nods once, then pushes off the frame and heads toward the living room, leaving me with the quiet, the drawer, and the weight of a card I shouldn’t have kept.
The smell of acetone and fresh coffee hits me before I’ve even stepped inside. The nail studio is still half-setup—boxes stacked against the wall, a line of new pedicure chairs waiting to be unwrapped—but it already feels warmer than my own kitchen.
Blythe’s at the counter, hair twisted up in a messy bun, bent over a color wheel like it’s a life-or-death decision. She looks up when I walk in, but the smile she gives me is pale.
“You look like you’ve been through it,” she says.
I drop my bag on the nearest chair. “You have no idea.”
She makes a soft sound in her throat—I am not sure if it’s sympathy or understanding—then pushes a cup of coffee across the counter toward me. “Drink. I’d offer wine, but… well.” She pats her stomach lightly.
I blink. “Still hitting you?”
Her nose wrinkles. “Like clockwork. Mornings are the worst, but today the smell of the shipment boxes almost took me out.”
I watch her for a moment, the way she’s fighting through it, stubbornly unpacking polish swatches with hands that shake just enough to give her away, and something in me eases. This, at least, is solid. It’s not perfect. But it’s ours.
“You need to sit down,” I tell her.
“And let you open all these boxes yourself?” she teases, but she’s already easing onto the stool.
“Exactly.” I grab the box cutter and start slicing open the first carton. “Don’t worry. I’ll keep the boxes away from you until the nausea passes. I know where your loyalty lies.”
Blythe smiles faintly, resting her chin in her palm. “You’re a good friend, Slay Muffin.”
“Better than some people,” I mutter without thinking.
She tilts her head, curious, but doesn’t push. Instead, she starts telling me about a bridal party booking she just confirmed for next month. I let her voice fill the room, and for a little while, I can pretend there isn’t a business card burning a hole in my kitchen drawer.
The bell above the door jingles, and I glance up from the counter where Blythe’s spreading color swatches like she’s laying out battle plans. Bennett’s hauling a ladder through the front, and his tool bag is in his hand.
“Ceiling fans need to be mounted,” he says, nodding toward the corner. “Figured I’d get it sorted before Ansel shows up and starts bitching about it being hot in here again.”
Blythe smothers a laugh, but her eyes flick up to Bennett as he props the ladder. There’s the faintest blush creeping into her cheeks.
I tilt my head, a grin slowly gracing my face. “Ohhh… someone’s got a crush.”
Her head snaps toward me, scandalized. “I do not. Stella—no. I just—he’s—he’s mounting my fans.”
“Uh-huh,” I say, dragging the sound out. “And you’re just standing here watching him mount the fans like you want him to mount you instead.”
