And now the universe slapped a bow on that slow collapse in the form of a blonde, stalker-y gym rat with too many Instagram accounts and the emotional maturity of a protein bar.
I exhale, rolling my eyes and looking toward the ceiling for the last shred of patience I can muster.
My fingers tighten around my phone. I should stop. Close the app. Walk away. Maybe throw the digital terrorist against the wall.
… Yeah, that doesn't happen.
Instead, I tap the woman’s profile again. And with shaking hands, I dive into the rabbit hole headfirst.
The mallet slams down, and something cracks open with a sick pop. A sharp snap. A deep groan.
I tighten my grip, breathing hard, my arms aching from the effort.
“Sable! What the fuck?!”
Demi’s voice barely registers over the pounding. Over Florence and the Machine blaring. Over my ragged breathing.
Another blow. Another crack.
My pulse is steady. My focus is sharp. I must finish this.
A low whimper—or is that the wind?—echoes through the shop.
Then… silence.
I step back, panting, wiping the sweat from my forehead.Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, that took a lot out of me.
Demi stands frozen in the doorway, face ashen and eyes darting to the floor with the urgency of someone expecting to find something horrific.
“What the actual fuck are you doing?”
I look down at the wreckage before me. My tools. The pieces of what used to be something whole.
Then I blink.
“Oh. You mean the dresser?” I kick one of the shattered wooden legs aside, reaching for the next tool I need. “I’m restoring it. I have to remove this part to fix it properly.”
Demi doesn’t move. “It sounded like you were beating someone to death.”
I turn the orbital sander on and smooth out the spot I just ripped some trim from. The whirring buzz screams through the shop. I shrug and smile. “If only.”
I point the tool and pulse it at her with mock madness.
Demi exhales so hard she nearly deflates. “You’re so fucking dramatic!”
“Says the one who nearly stroked out in my doorway!” I holler, turning the sander off.
She barks a laugh. “Yeah, well, for a solid thirty seconds, I thought,cool,this is how I become an accomplice, boss.”
I snort. “Oh, please. If I intended to commit murder, do you really think I’d do it here? My shop is my sanctuary, Demi.”
“You cannot say things like that while holding power tools!” she says, jabbing a finger at my sander. “I think that makes it premeditated.”
I grin, setting the sander down and wiping dust off my jeans. The six months since my humiliating breakup—read: very necessary and ridiculously overdue breakup—have been therapeutic in a lot of ways. After selling my marketing agency, I’ve thrown myself into Thorne Revival and mostly ignored the fact my stalker still hasn’t moved the fuck on even though I willingly relinquished the pathetic asshole.
The Blonde.
Why do they always have to be blonde?I practically sprinted to my hair girl, demanding she strip every trace of bleach thatever touched my strands, desperate for my natural warm brown to be the only thing staring back in the mirror.
