Fern spit her coffee all over the salon chair. Turning, wide-eyed, she was met with an extended arm and a container of cleaning wipes. She snagged several. “I can work the day.”
Rosalind chuckled. “Just let me know when you need time off. I’m always happy to cover for you, even after you own the place.”
Lifting her hand to her forehead in salute, Fern said, “Got it, boss.”
“I’m not your boss.” Ros scowled. “You’re the boss now.”
Fern made it through four haircuts and a nail appointment with Ros’s daughter-in-law, one of the pack’s betas. By the end of that one, which Ros pulled up a chair for, Fern knew way more than she needed to about the pack and was completely caught up on “the kids,” Ros’s grandbabies. The town was like one big family. In the case of this group, literally. In the case of the others, it was avibe.
Her day was overwhelmingly wholesome—minus Rosalind’s whole, “you smell like sex” thing. With fifty dollars in tips in her pocket, Fern locked up at four, stopped by Reads & Roasts to grab an early dinner, bought a new shifter book—not bear but it was omegaverse—and went upstairs to flop on her futon.
Her ass touched down, and a wave of anxiety pushed her back against the cushions.
She was going to own the salon.
Fern P. Walsh, stylist, was poised to become Fern P. Walsh, owner of the Big Chop.
What about Fern P. Walsh, artist?
Was there room for Fern P. Walsh, artist and business owner?
She wasn’t either at the moment, not really, just playing at thoseidentities. But she’d changed the life around her, wanting the one within her to shift, too. Wasn’t this exactly what she’d asked for?
“Fern Walsh, artist and salon owner,” she said to an empty orange dining chair.
Could she become both? Potentially, yes.
Turning sideways, she lay back to stare up at the ceiling, her thoughts taking a welcomed hard left along with her body. The last time she’d been in this position, Elliott had her pinned down and tilted her world on its axis with their first kiss. There was potential between them, too; she’d even gotten him to admit it. With a small smile pulling at her closed lips, she unwrapped her chicken salad on a croissant and positioned herself to take a bite.
But what if Elliott was waiting on histruemate?
He’d originally said he wasn’t interested in a relationship and later admitted they were potential mates. Holy fuck. Had she been hearing him wrong the whole time? Waspotentialall they’d ever have—because he wasn’t interested in anything more?
On one hand, he said he was done running; on the other, he hadn’t confessed anything, she’d had to ask about their status. Oh, shit.
Blowing out a heavy breath, Fern dropped her sandwich and sat up. She was staring, unfocused, at her dresser, feet tapping the floor, freaking out about the true meaning of the word potential when her phone rang.
For the first time in... forever?... she lunged to answer her mom’s incoming call.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Roaches?”
Sighing, Fern said, “No roaches. How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know.” She could practically hear her mother swaying her spindly fingers in the air. “I talked to your aunt the other day.”
“How is she?” Fern took a bite of her sandwich, expecting a long-winded response, which she got.
In sum, her aunt’s dog ate ten pairs of underwear and needed a visit to the vet to sort things out. “She asked about you,” Mom continued. “I won’t lie, it was hard for me.”
Pinching her brows, Fern asked, “What was?”
“Facing the embarrassment, having to admit you’d run off to the middle of nowhere to ‘seek happiness.’” Mom scoffed, and Fern’s mouth fell open, the rest of her sandwich forgotten. “She didn’t blame me, thank god. We both understand, you young people need to make your own mistakes and—”
“What the hell, Mom? I’m nearly thirty. Let me live my life. I didn’t want to stay in the city, so I followed an opportunity. What’s shameful about that? I love managing this salon and being an artist.”
It was a smidge early for Fern to announce she liked the Big Chop, but Ros wanted togivethe place to her. Knowing she would make it her own one day melted some of the ice her mom had shoved in her chest. She was going to be a business ownerandan artist—eventually. Petulantly, she decided not to tell her mom about the opportunity.
