“If that guy sticks a mic in my face, I’ll shove it somewhere the sun doesn’t shine,” I mumbled.
Sabrina’s lips curved. “Careful, Trace. You might make his Uncut episode.”
Mimi, apparently oblivious to the tension between Sabrina and me started listing “must-haves”: reclaimed-wood arches, imported linens, and a signature espresso martini bar.
Every item she opened her mouth, a knot tightened along my shoulders.
Sabrina translated as fast as she talked. “She means rustic beams, string lights, and maybe a local coffee cocktail. We can handle that.”
When Mimi finally headed to the lobby to check into her room, my grip on my drill loosened.
Sabrina let out a breath and leaned against a post. “Do you think she’ll survive here?”
“The bigger question is, will we survive having her here?” I joked.
Sabrina’s laugh was soft and real. Then she looked at me, her eyes serious. “Sounds like the podcaster is coming back. Are you ready to deal with that again?”
“No.” My answer was simple, short, and true.
“Maybe you’ll finally get to tell your side of the story,” she said. “Set the record straight and all.”
I glanced at her. “You think anyone cares about my side?”
She didn’t say anything, just pushed off the post and gathered her things. “I’ll email those specs tonight. Thanks for not biting her head off.”
“Yet.”
Her smile widened just enough to make me feel like there was a chance for us to get back to normal. “Don’t jinx it.”
I watched her walk toward her truck wishing I could think of something to say that would make her stay. She pulled away and the sound of her engine faded, leaving me alone with the drill in my hand and a heart that hadn’t gotten the memo about moving on.
I turned my attention back to the deck I was working on. It was half started, half finished, but beautiful anyway. Kind of like us.
The only difference was I knew how to build the damn deck. I didn’t have a clue how to build a bridge to reach Sabrina.
CHAPTER 2
SABRINA
By the time I ran a few errands and got back to the coffee shop, my hands were still shaking. Not from my interaction with the demanding, over the top wedding planner. I could handle her with my eyes closed. The leftover adrenaline still racing through my system was from seeing Trace again. I’d been avoiding him for months, ever since the damn Ex-List had been posted. Being so close after pretending I was over him had every single one of my nerves buzzing like a live wire.
I pulled into my usual parking spot behind Morning Wood, cut the engine, and sat there staring at my own reflection in the rearview mirror. Strands of hair stuck out from my lopsided bun, sawdust smudged my cheek, and there was a slight tremor in my lower lip. Great, just great... I looked exactly how I felt, like a woman who was barely holding herself together.
Inside, the shop was quiet except for the low hum of the espresso machine. Thank goodness for the mid-day lull. It was my favorite time of day. Late enough that the customers needing their morning fix had come and gone, but too early for that afternoon rush of folks looking for one last burst of energy to get them through the end of the day. But today it felt too quiet, too still.
I set my bag on the counter and tried to breathe. In through the nose. Out through the guilt.
Trace Quade.
He was the man I’d loved since before I was old enough to know what love was. He was also the man I’d broken the second I wrote his name down on The Ex-List.
I pressed my palms into the butcherblock countertop. The wood was warm from the sunlight coming in through the window, solid and steady. Trace had built it for me last fall when I’d told him I wanted to open up the shop. It wasn’t the counter’s fault my chest hurt every time I looked at it.
“Hey, boss.” Paige, my part-time barista-slash-college-student-slash-professional eavesdropper came in from the back room. She was balancing two boxes of syrup bottles against her hip. “I grabbed the hazelnut and caramel you wanted. The supplier said to tell you the cinnamon’s still backordered.”
“Thanks.” I forced a smile. “How have things been going so far today?”
“Pretty good. A few regulars came in. Everyone wants to know if we have any idea about who’s getting married at the Inn next month.” She wiggled her brows. “Apparently someone online said this wedding’s going to be ‘the rustic event of the year.’”
