Not because I want to be the person who brings light to her eyes instead of disappointment.
Just because it’s the right thing to do.
That’s all.
But as I work through the night, sketching out layouts and schedules and solutions, Rex snoring at my feet and glitter catching the lamplight, I know I’m lying to myself.
I know exactly what I’m doing.
And I know it’s going to complicate everything.
But I can’t seem to stop.
THREE
JO
“Ineed wine,” I announce, bursting through the door of Twin Waves Brewing Co. at eight-fifty the next morning. “Or coffee. Or possibly both mixed together because apparently that’s where my life is now.”
Michelle looks up from behind the espresso machine, eyebrows climbing toward her hairline. “Jo, it’s not even nine a.m.”
“Your point?” I dump my bag on the nearest table—the corner one we’ve claimed as unofficial book club territory—and collapse into a chair. “I’ve been up since five trying to figure out how to make my boutique simultaneously hold thirty people and comply with fire codes that were apparently written by someone who hates joy.”
“That’s called physics,” Amber says, sliding into the seat across from me with a knowing look. “Also, you have glitter in your eyebrows.”
I swipe at my face. More glitter comes away on my palm. Pink, sparkly, mocking evidence of yesterday’s disaster. “It’s everywhere. I found it in my coffee this morning. My car lookslike a fairy exploded. I’m pretty sure I’m going to be finding glitter in weird places for the rest of my natural life.”
“At least you’ll be festive,” Jessica offers, joining us with her usual stack of romance novels. She sets them down with a significant thud. “I brought reinforcements. Research materials.”
“Unless those books contain secret fire marshal seduction techniques, I’m not sure how they’ll help.”
“Oh, honey,” Hazel says, arriving with a tray of pastries that she sets down with maternal care. “Every romance novel contains seduction techniques. That’s literally the point.”
Michelle delivers my coffee—a double shot of everything, bless her—and settles in with her own cup. “Okay, so walk us through exactly what happened. The group chat last night was...dramatic.”
I pull out my phone and scroll back through the messages.
Fire Marshall tyrant ruins everything.
Valentine’s Day is dead and Dean Beckett killed it.
I was perfectly reasonable.
“You used the laughing-crying emoji fourteen times,” Amber interrupts, reading over my shoulder. “In one text.”
“I was upset.”
“You compared him to Voldemort.”
“He Who Must Not Be Reasonable About Occupancy Limits.”
Jessica snorts into her latte. “What exactly did he say that set you off?”
I take a long drink of coffee, fortifying myself. “He showed up during the party—which was going perfectly, by the way—and shut the whole thing down. Said I was over capacity. Which, fine, technically true, but it was a soft launch. An event. Everyone was having an amazing time until Captain Safety showed up with his clipboard and his”—I wave my hand vaguely—“his face.”
“His face?” Michelle leans forward, suddenly very interested. “What about his face?”
“You know. A face.” The kind of face that looks unfairly good when it’s scowling at you. Sharp jaw, dark eyes that probably see through walls and definitely saw through my attempt to claim twenty-eight people was “basically fifteen-ish.” The kind of face that made me forget why I was arguing for a dangerous second before fury came rushing back. “A tyrannical, joy-killing face.”
