“Still time,” I mutter. “I can back out now.”
But there’s a pull in my chest now, something sharper than dread. Anticipation, maybe.
Or curiosity. Or just the very real awareness that whatever “team bonding with Vivian” means, it’s not going to follow any kind of system I understand.
Which means I’m going to have to figure it out in real time.
CHAPTER 7
VIVIAN
Iflip the sign to CLOSED and lock the door, giving it a quick second check before I step onto the sidewalk. The shop is dark behind me, quiet and orderly, everything exactly where it should be. I take a second to look at it through the glass before turning away, slipping into the rhythm of Old Town on a Friday night.
Lights flicker on overhead and people drift between storefronts, their laughter carrying just enough to remind me I’m not the only one out here ending a long week. I tuck my hands into my jacket and start down the street, already thinking about tomorrow.
The jewelry making doesn’t worry me. That part is easy. I could do that in my sleep. It’s everything else. Like how to get the girls to actually interact. To work together instead of sitting side by side, quietly focused on their own pieces.
I turn the corner, my mind already organizing it the same way I would a display case. Shared trays of charms, maybe. Limited options so they have to reach, negotiate, talk. Pair them up, then switch halfway through so they don’t get too comfortable staying in one lane. And, because we have to, friendship bracelets.
I spent most of the afternoon between customers sketching ideas and scrolling through team bonding suggestions that felt either too complicated or completely impractical. I want this to be good. Not just something they get through, but something that actually works.
Emma asked me to do this, and I didn’t hesitate. I like her. The way she runs things. Clear. Direct. No wasted effort. I want to meet that same energy. Plus, this is new for me. New for Sullivan’s Fine Jewelry. I’ve felt like I needed to shake things up a little at the store to be more relevant; this could be it. I want this to work.
I adjust my sleeve as a cooler breeze moves down the street, my attention being dragged to the storefronts. Signs hang in windows for summer fairs, one already touting the July Fourth party happening in a couple weeks, with special guests from the Dominion hockey team, and that’s when my thoughts shift—uninvited but not exactly unexpected.
Ty.
I’m going to see him again tomorrow. Funny how someone can suddenly land directly on your path and you hardly know them at all. As if fate or the universe or someone upstairs was messing around with divine intervention, or at least their interpretation of it in a matchmaking way.
I mean, my track record with him at this point isn’t horrible. So far, if we’re keeping count, I’ve managed to kiss him and save his life. And by save his life, I mean taking a ring off his finger before it became a situation, but still. It counts. Especially considering the look on Emma’s face when I said I’d have to cut it off.
My mouth presses together, the memory landing sharper than I’d like. Because if we’re talking saving lives, I wouldn’t be opposed to a situation where I have to give him CPR.
Strictly for medical reasons. Obviously.
Look. Is he hot? Yes. Actually, he’s beautiful. And that’s inconvenient, because I’m not built for that part of the story. Notthe one where things turn into something real and stay that way. I’ve seen how that goes.
People like me…we don’t get the happily ever after.
We circle it. Show up for our friends when they find it. Sometimes we help other people find theirs. So if all I’m doing here is standing on the sidelines, watching him from a safe distance, that’s fine. It has to be.
I exhale, shaking my head once like that might reset things. Focus. Charms. Organization. Not…CPR. No thinking of delicious Ty biceps nor of soft lips attached to hot men who are also like Ty.
My stomach interrupts before I can go any further. Right. Food. The thought hits all at once, immediate and undeniable.
Crabcake sandwich. I stop mid-step, pivot without hesitation, and head back down the block. Yes. That’s exactly what I’m doing.
According to our shared calendar, and the ten million text messages she sent me today, my grandmother should be in Atlantic City by now, which means the house is mine for the weekend. Completely mine.
I smile to myself as I walk, already picturing it: I’m going home, taking off my bra, eating a crabcake sandwich, and sitting in a T-shirt and my underwear while I watch something mindless on TV. No schedule. No expectations. Just quiet, and I cannot wait.
The restaurant is already starting to fill when I step inside, the low hum of conversation wrapping around me as the door swings shut behind me. I spot an open seat at the bar and, without breaking stride, head right over. I slide onto the stool, setting my bag on the hook beneath the bar and pulling the menu toward me more out of habit than necessity.
“Crabcake sandwich to go?” the bartender asks, already reaching for a glass.
I glance up, caught off guard for half a second before I smile. “Is it that obvious?”
“You’ve got the look,” he says, pouring a glass of white wine like we’ve already agreed on it.
