“And you think that’ll fix things?”
“Yes.”
“And you’re going to follow me around taking notes?”
“If needed.”
This woman is terrifying. And weirdly compelling.
Annabelle moves toward the door, clearly done with the discussion.
“Be ready for the team charity event tonight,” she says and walks out without waiting for me to argue.
I stare after her. Annoyed. Turned on. Even more annoyed that I’m turned on.
“Great,” I mutter. “The boss’s daughter wants to ruin my life.”
But the truth sneaks in anyway.
And God help me, I kind of want to see what she does next.
Because one thing is very, very certain.
I’m not making her job easy.
Watching her get flustered might be the most fun I’ll have all season.
Chapter three
Annabelle
“No, Shari, I’m not emotionally ready to leave my apartment. I barely survived brushing my hair,” I say, pacing my bedroom while my best friend appears on FaceTime, lounging on her couch with a face mask the color of mint toothpaste.
“That bad?” she asks.
“Worse,” I say. “If one more person asks if I’m ‘healing,’ I am going to go feral and start throwing scented candles.”
She snorts. “Okay, so you’re clearly thriving.”
I stop in front of my full-length mirror and glare at my reflection. Same brown eyes. Same dark hair. Same face that was splashed all over my ex’s fan accounts three weeks ago with the captionI hope she’s okaylike I am a lost puppy and not a human woman with a LinkedIn profile.
“Thriving is a strong word,” I say. “I’d say I’m… vertical. Barely.”
“Belle,” Shari says gently, “it’s only been three weeks since the world’s most generic cowboy crooner cheated on you at soundcheck. You don’t have to be okay yet.”
“I am okay.”
“You cried because a stranger in the grocery store had your ex’s haircut.”
“It was a traumatic fade.”
“And you tried to return his sweatshirt to the store because you couldn’t stand looking at it.”
“It had evil energy,” I insist.
She gives methe look.The one that says she can see the little emotional dumpster fire still smoldering in me.
I flop onto my bed, the mattress squeaking in protest. Boxes are still stacked along the wall, half-unpacked. My tiny Nashville apartment smells faintly like cardboard, laundry detergent, and the vanilla candle I keep burning so it does not smell like my feelings.
