Astrid Parker was loved, no matter what her mother thought of her. No matter what choices she made.
And that love gave her the courage to choose herself.
“I believe that you believe that, Mom,” she said, her voice suddenly shaky with emotion. “But all I feel is your love for an Astrid you’ve created in your mind, and I don’t like that woman. I don’t want to be her anymore.”
Isabel’s mouth still hung open, eyes blinking rapidly. “Astrid, what are you saying?”
Astrid stood up. She didn’t run her hand down her jeans. Shedidn’t straighten her shirt or smooth her hair. She simply took her keys out of her bag and worked the one for the Bright Designs offices off the ring. She placed it on the desk in front of her mother.
“I’m saying I quit.”
And then she walked out the door, tears of relief, joy, and a little sadness spilling freely down her cheeks as she went.
Chapter Thirty-three
THE GODDAMN TWOof Cups.
Jordan couldn’t believe it.
After two weeks of pentacles, swords, and wands, Empresses and Hanged Women, that little bitch chose Wednesday morning after Jordan’s entire life imploded—again—to pop back up like a jack-in-the-box from hell.
She tore the damn thing right in half, something she probably should’ve done months ago. It might’ve saved her a lot of heartache. Or, at the very least, it would’ve saved her a lot of useless thoughts and feelings about love and partnerships.
Still, hours later, while she installed the herringbone feature wall in the Lapis Room, she couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Soul mates.
A perfect pairing.
Well, fuck that.
She slammed the nail gun into a slanted piece of espresso-colored wood a little harder than necessary.
After Astrid’s declaration, Natasha, Emery, and the rest of theInnside Americacrew left on Saturday morning without much fanfare. In the driveway, Natasha had hugged Jordan. She’d apologized that things had gone down the way they had, but she hadn’t once offered any alternatives, any ideas for how they might fix this mess and continue filming.
Jordan couldn’t tell if she was devastated or relieved. Maybe she was both—they’d have to sell the inn now, but she also didn’t think she could just go back and film as the lead designer. Not with Astrid haunting every room, every design choice.
Now, the plan—drawn up by Simon, of course—was to finish the reno and try to get as much money for the house as possible. A real estate agent had come in yesterday, ecstatic over the possibility of selling such an American treasure. Her name was Trish. She had very blond hair that didn’t move when she walked, and Jordan had to fight the urge to toss her out a window.
Still, Trish estimated a seven-figure sales price, which should’ve made anyone happy.
All it did was send Jordan back to her bed, staring at her recent one-sided text thread with Astrid, fighting the urge to call again.
She wouldn’t do it. By now, she was a goddamn expert in women she loved walking out without even discussing it with her, and she wasn’t about to go chasing after someone who clearly didn’t want her. A decision that would’ve been a lot easier to focus on without that infernal Two of Cups card, which was exactly why it was now in pieces in the cottage’s kitchen garbage.
She jabbed at the wall again with her nail gun.
Bang.
Bang.
Bang.
She tried to push Astrid’s face from her mind—Astrid smiling, baking, slow-dancing, coming—but the only thing that seemed to really block the woman out was the slam of her nail gun. She’d justplaced a new slat of wood against the outline on the wall when her phone rang.
She dropped the tool, her heart catapulting into her throat. Just like that, her hands were shaking, that goddamnhopezipping through her chest like a comet. She fumbled her phone from her back pocket, still unsure what she would do when she saw Astrid’s name across her—
But it wasn’t Astrid.
