Demi smirks, reading my hesitation as a win. “Come on, Sable Hawthorne. Let’s be reckless. Or, you know, as reckless as two women approaching forty can be on a Friday night. Bash will be gone for the weekend; in mostly safe hands with Andrew—”
“Andrew would never let anything happen to him,” I correct.
She waves a dismissive hand over my incessant need to still defend him.
I look down at all the dust covering my work clothes, as if I’m actually considering this idea. “I absolutely cannot go out like this.”
With an exaggerated slap to her forehead, she lets out a sigh as if I’m hopeless. “It’s 4:30 in the afternoon. You’ve got all thetime in the world to wrap things up here, grab a shower, throw some mascara on those lashes, and slap some lotion on those long ass legs—because you are wearing something short to show them off.”
I roll my eyes, but before I can argue, my phone vibrates on the workbench. I glance at the notification that glares on the screen, bracing myself.
It’s her.
Again.
Another fake account—this one namedJustWondering2025—commenting on the latest photo I posted of a sun-bleached, knotty-oak farmhouse cabinet with hand-brushed copper hardware.
[JustWondering2025]:Looks great! I hope your client loves it as much as Andrew loved what we did together last night.
I grind my teeth. Molars ready to crack
Demi notices immediately. “What? What happened?”
I tilt the screen toward her. She skims the message, then groans. “Oh, for f—” She stops herself, throwing her hands in the air. “This bitch needs a hobby. Crochet a thong, skydive into traffic, I don’t care. She’s out here stalking your posts like a dumpster rat on meth.”
I don’t respond. I just stare at the message, letting the familiar irritation flare up. It’s been months, and she still won’t let me go. I’ve deleted and blocked every account she’d made, but she just keeps coming back, the digital equivalent of a particularly aggressive fungus.
Demi nudges me. “Okay, no, we’re definitely going out now.”
I blink up at her. “What—”
She gestures dramatically at my phone. “You need a break from this nonsense. From her, from Andrew-adjacent drama, from your shop hermit tendencies. I refuse to let a grown woman’s weird obsession keep you locked up with your pry bars and dust.”
I exhale through my nose, still simmering, but she’s right. Maybe getting out, getting away, will help. I slap my phone down on the workbench.
“Fine,” I mutter. “We’re going out.”
Demi pumps a fist in victory. “Yes! There is a bar not too far from here I’ve been dying to check out.”
The front door chimes, and we both turn as Andrew steps inside.
Andrew, a car sales manager, could charm an entire PTA into forgiving his lateness. Dark hair, neatly trimmed beard, broad shoulders that used to make me weak in the knees—before I realized they were holding up a man who specialized in manipulation. There isn’t much he can’t talk his way in and out of. Except when I found out about the blonde.
“Hey, Sable,” he says, giving me a nod and completely ignoring Demi, before scanning the shop. “Where’s Bash?”
“In the office,” I reply. “Where he always is.”
The corner of his mouth lifts, mistaking my irritation for a joke.
“Cool, I’ll grab him,” he says, heading toward the office.
Beside me, Demi crosses her arms and mutters, “You sure you don’t need to check with Crazy-Ashley first?”
I choke on a laugh.
Andrew either doesn’t hear her or is pretending not to.
A second later, Bash barrels out of the office, backpack slung over one shoulder, his tablet clutched in his hands.
