He shrugs. “I don’t. But I want you to be happy like that.”
I press my lips into a line. He’s got it all—the drive to build his business and the woman he loves at his side growing it with him. It could be nice to find a connection like that.
Except I don’t tend to stay in one place long enough to allow a relationship to get to a serious stage like theirs.
Eve flashes through my mind. It fills with her gorgeous smile, the way her cute laugh has always made me feel, those fucking sinful curves that have only become more tempting, and her colorful everything. Warmth expands, starting in my chest and spreading through me.
I shut down the forbidden train of thought before it runs away from me.
Can’t be thinking about her like this. It’s a major no-go.
“Give me your phone. I’ll help you take your profile picture,” Benson says.
“What, can’t I just use one I already have?”
He takes my phone and holds it up. “Work it. Give the ladies that famous Kincaid-brand smile that breaks all those hearts after you break their beds.”
Laughter busts out of me. He takes photos from different angles with ridiculous encouragement. I swipe a hand over my mouth and goof off by striking a few poses.
“There, you should have some winners in there, you beautiful bastard.” Benson tosses my phone to me. “You’re welcome.”
“Thanks.”
I don’t put too much thought into making a profile on the first app that pops up when I search for online dating. I keep it basic, listing my interests for hockey, being outdoors, and kicking back with friends. The rest can come if the vibe is right when I find someone to talk to.
It’s not like I’m looking for the love of my life.
SIX
EVE
Craft nightwith my girls is hosted on Friday at my renovated apartment above my parents’ garage. I have off from work. Usually if I’m not bartending on Fridays or Saturdays I attend the home ice hockey games with Mom, like most townies. We love to support our team.
So much so that Mr. Boucher saw the Heston U and hockey-themed stickers I made for my water bottle when their season started and asked if I’d make some more to put out at the bar. They go like hotcakes whenever I bring a new batch in. It makes my heart happy when people tag me in the photos of the stickers in use on social media.
Tonight’s free since the Knights are out of town for an away game. The school’s live feed is one of the many tabs open on my phone to keep track of the score.
Humming the song playing in the background on my speaker set shaped like a rainbow, I get everything ready for my friends’ arrival.
Once I’ve cleared away some of the chaotic assortment of clutter—which always seems to pile up around my space no matter how often I attempt to keep it presentable and organized—I get out my things for crafting.
The closet is a mess. I cram all of my supplies in here when I have a random urge to clean everything for a mental fresh slate. Meaning, all my doom piles and things I’ve left out so I’ll remember them end up shoved out of sight more often than not. Right now it’s a mix of hobby graveyard and stuff I’ve been holding on to.
Whispering a promise to not get sidetracked and bracing myself, I dive in.
First, I move my clay and resin supplies out of the way. Usually I keep them handy since they’re my go-to craft activity, but I put them away so we have the room we need for wine and snacks on the table where my earring crafting station regularly lives.
The abandoned polygel kit is next—the one an ad on social media convinced me I had to have because it made me suddenlyneedto try doing my own nails. It was a fun process to learn, despite the five hours it took to do them. The fact I wasn’t good at it right away made it hard to want to practice, even though some part of my brain acknowledges that’s logically how skills work. Generally it’s overpowered by the side of my mind that fumes when I don’t immediately uncover a hidden skill for the brand new hobby I picked up on impulse.
I squint at the contents of the closet when I don’t see my box of embroidery thread. It should be here. I think about it for a beat, then smack the door frame with a frustrated sigh. I know what happened. I’m sure I remember seeing it at Shawn’s last, hit with a photographic memory of taking it there to work on some handmade gifts for the holidays. I’ll have to endure seeing his face to get it back.
Shaking my head, I keep moving things around.
“There you are,” I crow in success.
The landscape painting I picked out at Mrs. Carter’s estate sale is perfect for tonight’s craft session with my friends. Westarted with thrifted paintings and added in our own ghosts for Halloween, then decided we should keep doing seasonal ones. This painting will become my own cute holiday ghostie version of A Christmas Carol.
A knock sounds at my door.
