“Breathe.”
I realized I’d been talking a thousand words per minute. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize. I love it. This is exactly what I needed.” Mark’s voice was warm. “Meet me at the space in an hour? We can walk through it together and start making an actual plan.”
“An hour?”
“Unless you need more time to make spreadsheets.”
“I’m not going to make spreadsheets.”
“You’re absolutely going to make spreadsheets.”
He wasn’t wrong.
“See you in an hour.”
I got to the space thirty minutes later because I was incapable of staying in my apartment when I was nervous.
The building sat on the corner of 18th and Palm in Ybor, right on the edge where the neighborhood transitioned from residential to commercial. It was a good location—close enough to the clubs and bars to get foot traffic, but far enough away that it felt like its own thing. The faded red-brick space had big windows facing the street, which would be perfect for visibility, and a hand-painted “For Lease” sign that someone had already partially covered with graffiti.
I stood on the sidewalk, staring up at it, trying to picture what it would look like withoursign and lights in the windows. I closed my eyes and tried to picture people inside, laughing and drinking and watching a game.
My chest felt tight.
This was real.
Sweet mother of Jack Daniels and shit, this was happening.
I checked my phone.
Mark would be here in fifteen minutes.
I should stop standing here like a creepand—
Someone slammed into me from the side.
Hard.
I stumbled sideways, barely catching myself on the wall as an explosion of white paper erupted around us like the world’s most boring confetti.
“Shit—sorry—fuck—I’m so sorry—”
I looked up to find a man in a rumpled suit scrambling to collect papers that were now scattered across the sidewalk and drifting into the street. He was around my height, maybe a little shorter, with dirty blond hair that looked like he’d run his hands through it too many times and hadn’t looked in a mirror since. His tie was loosened despite the early hour, and he had the frantic energy of someone who was very, very late for something important.
“It’s fine,” I said, bending down to help. “No worries. Here, let me help.”
“I wasn’t looking where I was going.” He lunged for a paper that was making a break for the gutter. “I’m such an idiot—”
“Seriously, it’s okay.” I grabbed a handful of documents that had landed near my feet. They looked official—legal documents, maybe? Court filings? I tried to stack them, but they were all different sizes and my hands were shaking from the adrenaline of being body-checked on a Monday morning.
“Thanks. I’m sorry, thankyou—” The man was still scrambling, trying to collect everything while also preventing new papers from escaping. One got caught by the breeze and sailed toward the street. He made a desperate grab for it and nearly face-planted on the asphalt.
“Here, I’ve got it.” I chased down the escapee and added it to my stack.
We both straightened at the same time, me holding about a third of his papers, him clutching the rest to his chest like they might make another run for it.
That’s when our eyes met.
