Chapter
Nine
LEXIE
The sewing machine hums beneath my fingers, a soothing drone that drowns out the silence of my apartment. Fabric flows through my hands as I guide the needle along the seam of what will become someone else's comfort. A burgundy sweater with tiny gold stars embroidered around the collar. Fall's bestseller, if the pre-orders are any indication.
Three weeks since the insurance salesman incident, and Jessica has finally stopped sending me apologetic links to different dating sites. Progress of a sort. She even brought me a "I'm sorry my meddling led to you climbing out a bathroom window" cake last weekend, which was both ridiculous and delicious. I've forgiven her, mostly because the cake was chocolate ganache and partly because I know she means well.
It's notherfault I'm love-cursed.
I finish the seam and clip the threads, holding up the nearly completed sweater to check my work. Perfect. Exactly as I designed it.
Predictable. Reliable.
Unlike men.
My phone buzzes with a notification, but I ignore it. Probably Jessica checking in again, or maybe another review on my store. I'll deal with it later. Right now, I have six more orders to complete before my self-imposed deadline, and the steady click-clack of the machine is the only company I need.
Two hours later, my back protests as I stretch, arms reaching toward the ceiling. The stack of completed orders sits neatly by the door, ready for tomorrow's pickup. I should feel accomplished. Instead, I just feel...empty. Like I've poured everything into these creations and have nothing left for myself.
"Fresh air," I mutter to no one. "That's what you need."
I grab my keys and a light jacket. It's that perfect early autumn weather where the sun still has some warmth but the breeze carries promises of the coming chill. Perfect sweater weather, as I remind my customers in every newsletter. I should be thrilled. Instead, I'm just...here. Existing. Making sweaters. Paying rent. Rinse and repeat.
Outside, the neighborhood bustles with evening activity. Couples walking dogs. Families heading to dinner. Groups of friends laughing as they spill out of the craft brewery on the corner. I weave through them all, hands shoved in my pockets, head down.
Fifteen minutes of purposeless wandering later, I find myself circling back toward my building. As I approach the bank of mailboxes in the lobby, I realize I haven't checked mine in days. Probably nothing but junk and bills, but it's another small task to fill the endless string of minutes that make up my days.
I twist the key in the lock and pull out a small stack. Credit card offers, electric bill, supermarket flyer, and a thick cream-colored envelope with my name and address handwritten in an elegant script.
The return address catches my eye and my stomach drops through the floor.
Mark Werner & The Daniels Pack.
Seriously?
My fingers go numb as I stare at the envelope. It's heavy, expensive paper, the kind used for wedding invitations or...
Or mating ceremonies.
No. No way. He wouldn't.
It's one thing for him to be flaunting his new relationship all over social media, I didn't think he'd go as far as to actually print an invitation and send it to me. But of course he would. This is exactly the kind of thing Mark would do.
By the time I reach my door, I'm fuming, the envelope crumpled in my white-knuckled grip.
Inside my apartment, I throw the rest of the mail on the counter and tear open the cream envelope with enough force to rip the contents. A pristine card slides out, along with a glossy photo that flutters to the floor.
My eyes scan the elegant typography, each word a fresh slap in the face.
The Daniels Pack joyfully invites you to celebrate their official Mating Ceremony...
Joyfully. God, it even sounds like Mark, fake sincerity dripping from every syllable. I check the date. Eight weeks from now. Just enough advance notice to be proper, but not so much that I can conveniently make other plans.
I bend to retrieve the photo, already knowing what I'll find. Sure enough, it's one of those insufferable pack portraits with Mark in the center, his arm around the petite blonde omega I glimpsed on Instagram. Three other people are arranged around them in practiced casualness, all wearing coordinating outfits in muted blues and grays. And at their feet, a golden retriever sporting—I squint in disbelief—a custom sweater that matches the pack's color scheme as if they all agree on what to wear every morning.
Okay, now that's just adding insult to injury.
