Despite the way my stomach dips, I smile.
“Oh, and there’s an apartment above the shop that’s available,” she adds like she’s just remembering. “My last tenant moved out a month ago. It’s furnished with the basics, so if you want to take a break from Sloane’s couch...”
My smile falters. “How do you know I’m sleeping on her couch?”
“Small town, honey.”
Right. And I’m a woman sleeping on her cancer-patient friend’s sofa, churning out baked goods like I’m possessed by the spirit of Betty Crocker and running at dawn to avoid being judged.
My gut churns at the thought of another job where I feign interest and play politics and pretend to be someone I’m not. I spent a long time trying to be what other people wanted, and when I couldn’t, falling back on the familiar role of the snarky bitch who never let anyone see her bleed. Until one night on a tropical island changed all that.
Maybe it’s time to be someone else.
“Can I move in today and start tomorrow?” I ask before I lose my nerve.
Winnie’s eyes widen, and then she nods. “That would work great.” Her gaze sharpens for a moment, more seasoned business owner than benevolent grandma. “But no more giving away the product. Got it?”
“Got it.”
Winnie turns for the door of her shop, then looks back over her shoulder.
“You’re worth more than free, Avah.”
She walks into the bakery before I can respond, the bells above the door jingling.
I stand there on the sidewalk with the morning sun bathing the whole of downtown in its golden glow.
Worth more than free.
The words echo in the hollow space behind my ribs where my confidence used to live before Jon chipped it away piece by piece. Before my father taught me that love came with conditions and my mother taught me that survival meant becoming whatever the men in your life wanted you to be. I might not know how to find my joy, but hope feels like a pretty good place to start. I sure hope I can live up to Winnie’s expectation and prove that I’m worth more than free.
14
AVAH
Sloane’s 4Runnercruises through the gated community I didn’t know existed until now. Nestled in the foothills above Skylark, behind stone walls and security cameras, the lots look to be at least thirty acres. Some of the houses are large. Others are stupid big and make you wonder what one family could possibly need with ten thousand square feet or more.
Jon would lose his mind over this neighborhood. He’d be knocking on doors with business cards and that slick smile, working every angle, calculating net worth from the outside looking in.
“How did I not know this place existed?”
“Because the people who live here don’t want you to know.” Sloane slows as we approach a wrought-iron gate. “Privacy is the whole point. From what Jeremy says, half the residents are self-made, and the other half are aging trustafarians who moved here to ski and be left alone.”
She punches a code into the keypad, and the gate swings open to reveal a long driveway lined with aspens, their leaves flickering silver-green in the evening light. At the end sits a house that’s notthe most impressive in the neighborhood, but still takes my breath away—a mix of reclaimed lumber and stone with massive windows that reflect the orange blaze of sunset, and a roofline that manages to frame the mountain peaks in the distance. I love everything about it.
“He bought the lot next door, too,” Sloane says. “For privacy. The house backs to the river, so he had the stretch behind him streamscaped, of course.”
“Is he an avid fisherman?” The image of Jeremy Winslow standing hip-deep in cold water, wearing waders and a floppy hat, refuses to compute. The man would likely Jedi-mind-trick the fish into flinging themselves onto his hook.
“Maybe?” Sloane shrugs. “My brother isn’t chatty about the details of his life. He’s more interested in micromanaging mine.”
“He cares about you.” The words slip out before I can stop them.
Sloane cuts me a look, her blue eyes homing in on something I don’t want her to see. I’ve spent the better part of a year ripping on her brother at every opportunity. Now I’m throwing out lines about how much he cares like a damn greeting card company. Oops.
“Did you just defend Jeremy?”
I swat away her question like it’s an annoying gnat. “I’m just saying. You told me he’s dialed down the overbearing routine since you started the new drug trial. That’s progress.”
