By the time I pulled into the parking spot behind Scoop & Swirl, it was just after eight. Main Street was waking up slowly, the way small towns did before most people had finished their first cup of coffee. A delivery truck rumbled past, the bakery two doors down had its lights on, and the morning sun bounced off the front windows of the businesses lining the street.
My gaze went across the road before I could stop it.
Bad Habit was dark.
Of course it was dark.
It was eight in the morning.
Most tattoo shops didn’t open at eight in the morning, and Rome didn’t strike me as the cheerful early-bird type. He struck me as the type who came alive after noon and judged people who used phrases like rise and shine.
Still, I looked. Then I hated that I’d looked.
I grabbed my bag from the passenger seat and slammed the car door a little harder than necessary. The sound echoed down the alley, and I winced.
“Smooth,” I muttered.
Inside Scoop & Swirl, I flipped on the lights, and the shop glowed to life around me. The tables were clean from the night before, the floors mostly passed inspection, and the display freezer was full enough to make me feel like I had things under control.
That was probably an illusion.
But I was willing to enjoy it while it lasted.
I tied on my apron, washed my hands, and got to work.
There was comfort in routine, even if my routine was only one day old. I restocked napkins and spoons, refilled the topping containers, wiped down the counter, checked the freezer temperatures, and wrote the day’s featured flavor on the small chalkboard near the register.
Double Chocolate Fudge.
I paused with the chalk still in my hand, then I rolled my eyes.
I should’ve picked strawberry cheesecake. Or butter pecan. Or literally anything that didn’t remind me of a tattooed man sitting at one of my tables pretending he didn’t like the exact thing he kept eating.
I erased the board.
Then I stood there with the chalk in my hand, annoyed at myself.
Double Chocolate Fudge had been one of the best sellers yesterday. It deserved to be featured. It had nothing to do with Rome.
I rewrote it in bigger letters out of spite.
By nine-thirty, I had the register ready, the freezer organized, and the first batch of waffle cones cooling behind the counter. My wrist still ached every time I moved too quickly, so I wrapped it with a compression bandage I’d found in the first-aid kit and told myself that was practically the same as self-care.
At ten, I unlocked the front door.
The first customer came in at ten-oh-seven.
Then another.
Then a mother with two little boys who spent five minutes debating between bubblegum and birthday cake like the fate of the world depended on it. By eleven, I had a small but steady stream of customers, enough to keep me busy without feeling like I might need to fake my own death to escape.
It was good.
Normal.
Manageable.
I smiled, scooped, rang people up, wiped sticky fingerprints off the counter, and answered the same questions about hours, flavors, and whether I made milkshakes. Yes, I made milkshakes. Yes, I had dairy-free options. No, I did not have pistachio yet, but apparently I needed to because three people asked before lunch.
