Hex is coming, and whether I’m ready or not, I’ve got to go figure out what the hell this is all about.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I barely notice time slipping by.
Thirty more minutes.
If Hex can help me deal with my stalker, in a non-murdery way, then hell, I’d throw myself at him. Not that I wouldn’t throw myself at him just for the coffee. Or for the HGTV-levelyard makeover. But putting a lid on Stalker Barbie? That would make my life infinitely better.
Twenty-eight minutes. That’s all I’ve got to get my life together and pull myself into a semblance of normalcy. How do I even begin to act like this isn’t all a little crazy?
I settle on a pair of tight jeans, my favorite worn-in combat boots, and a casual shirt that clings in all the right places. I reach way back into my closet, fingers grazing over something familiar.
A leather jacket.
It’s from my college days, back when I worked promotions for a motorcycle shop and spent my nights line dancing on bar tops without a care in the world. Those gigs were wild, and I liked to pretend my marketing skills got me the job, not my ass in a pair of Daisy Dukes. But that false confidence built something real. It built my agency. My career. Over time, my clients became more corporate, more buttoned-up. And, somewhere along the way, so did I.
I had shoved that side of me—the reckless, fun, alive side—into the back of my closet with this jacket.
And as I slide my arms into it, rolling my shoulders to loosen the stiff leather, I feel an ember of my old self flicker. I flip my hair out from under the collar, then catch my reflection in the mirror.
And I smile.
Because I recognize the woman looking back at me.
“Plant some Angelonias next to the porch,” I say, pointing to the spot along the railing. “Give her some color she can see when she sits out here.”
Allen nods. “You got it. We’ve got the playscape ready to put in the back as well.” He shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels. “Anything for you, man. And thanks again for helping me out with that… problem.”
I smirk. “No problem.” I grab a shovel, testing the weight in my hand. “And thanks for letting me borrow these.” I nod toward the pile of landscaping tools: shovels, bags of fertilizer, and a few other things that could do more than just tend a garden.
“I’ll drop them off at the bar when I’m done.” Allen chuckles, but doesn’t ask questions. That’s why I like him and help him whenever I can.
The sound of my bike must’ve caught her attention because the door swings open, and there she is.
I take every inch of her in. Scuffed and paint-splattered combat boots, worn down in places but still tough looking. Then those tight-ass jeans, hugging her hips just right, leading up to a leather jacket that scream sheunderstood the fucking assignment.
Her hair’s curled like she didn’t try. But from what little I’ve discovered about Sable Hawthorne—there’s intention in every effortless wave. That rich brown catches the light of the morning sun, making me think of a slow pour of whiskey and darker things I shouldn’t want this bad. Her makeup’s subtle. No glitter, no tricks. Just her.
She looks real.
And real is dangerous.
She catches me looking, and I don’t bother hiding it.
Her eyes flick to Allen, then to the landscaping materials scattered around the yard. She frowns, but it’s not anger. It’s a quick flush of embarrassment she doesn’t seem to know how to hide. The crease between her brows deepens, and her mouth presses into a thin line like she’s biting back an apology that won’t fix anything.
“This is too much,” she says, folding her arms across her chest. Her weight shifts, subtle but uneasy. “I should’ve never let it get this bad.”
I step closer into her space. “You’ve got nothing to be embarrassed about.” I meet her eyes, making sure she hears me. “Your ex should be the one embarrassed.”
Her jaw tenses, but she doesn’t argue. Not directly, anyway. “I don’t need a man to take care of everything for me.”
I nod. “No, you don’t…”
Her brows lift, eyes full of challenge, like she wants me to test her. I don’t flinch.
“But a partner,” I continue, voice low, steady, “arealpartner, doesn’t stand by and watch the person they care about drownunder a workload too heavy to carry alone. It’s not about who’s capable. It’s about who gives a damn.”
Her throat bobs. And something twists in my chest. She’s never experienced someone picking up the slackwithoutbeing asked.
