And maybe I deserve that.
Still, I can’t stop thinking about her. All goddamn day, every time my hands weren’t moving, my head went back to last night. The fight, sure, but before that, too. Her skin under my palms, warm and impossibly soft. The faint scent of paint clinging to her from hours of work, mixing with the clean, sweet smell of her conditioner when I buried myself in her tight pussy.
I grip the steering wheel a little too tightly before I start the engine. The image of her—head tipped back, lips parted on a moan, eyes locked on mine—burns behind my eyelids. I should want to forget. I should make myself forget.
But I don’t.
The drive home is short, but it feels longer with my head throbbing in time with the traffic lights. Every stop is a spike of irritation, every turn a reminder that my shoulders are locked up tight. By the time I pull into my driveway, the glow from the dashboard feels like it’s searing straight through my eyes.
I kill the engine and just sit there for a second, gripping the steering wheel, willing the pounding in my skull to ease up. It doesn’t. If anything, it digs in deeper, like my brain’s trying to beat its way out.
Inside, the house is dark and still. I don’t bother turning on more than one lamp in the living room—anything brighter feels like it might split my head in two. I kick off my boots, drop my keys in the bowl by the door, and make my way to the kitchen. A couple of painkillers, a tall glass of water, and I lean against the counter, eyes shut.
The silence should help, but it doesn’t. My mind’s still loud. Every thought circles back to her. To Paige.
I try to focus on the cool glass in my hand, my breathing, but it’s useless. She’s there behind my eyes—the curve of her shoulder, the way she pressed closer when she laughed, the taste of her still lingering in my memory like I could call it back if I just let myself.
I drag a hand over my face and push away from the counter, heading for the bedroom. The clock says it’s barely past 1:00, but it feels like I’ve been on my feet for days. I strip off my shirt, drop it in the hamper, and collapse onto the bed without bothering with the lights.
The painkillers will kick in soon, I tell myself. I’ll sleep. I’ll wake up and this headache—and everything else—will feel less sharp.
But I know better. I know when I close my eyes, it won’t be darkness I see. It’ll be her.
Chapter Fifteen
Paige
The smell of lemon cleaner still lingers in the air, zesty and bright, and I can’t help grinning as I walk my mom through the shop.
“Wow,” she says, turning in a slow circle in the middle of the room. “Paige, it looks amazing.”
“I know,” I say, and for once, I let myself actually sound proud. “Electrical’s all done, painting’s done, and I spent half the weekend wrestling with that buffing machine. Pretty sure my shoulders are going to be sore for the rest of my life, but—” I wave a hand toward the floor, which shines like it’s brand new—“worth it.”
She crouches, pressing her fingertips lightly to the wood. “It really does look beautiful. You’ve worked so hard.”
Every surface gleams—walls, counter, windows. It feels like a completely different space from the dusty, half-forgotten building I first stepped into months ago. Now all it needs is the heart of the place—the ovens, the mixers, the fridge. They’re supposed to arrive next week, and I’m already picturing where everything will go, how it will all come together.
For now, though, it’s the fun part. “I was thinking we could go out today, hit a few thrift shops,” I say as we head toward the door. “See if we can find some tables and chairs. I want everything mismatched—like the furniture has its own stories before it gets here.”
Mom smiles, tucking her arm through mine as we step outside. “That’s very you.”
“Exactly.” I lock up behind us, and as we walk toward her car, I can already picture it—different colors and shapes scattered through the shop, a mix of wood and metal and paint. A place that feels warm and alive. A place that feels like mine.
The bell over the thrift shop door jingles as we step inside, the air warm and smelling faintly of cedar and old books. It’s one of those places where you have to slow down and let your eyesadjust—every inch is crowded with shelves, racks, and stacked furniture, the aisles narrow enough that you have to turn sideways to pass someone.
“This is promising,” Mom murmurs, already scanning the room like she’s mapping out her attack. She’s been thrifting since I was a kid, and I’ve lost count of the times she’s spotted something incredible in what I swore was just a pile of junk.
We start with the furniture corner, where a line of mismatched chairs leans against the wall in uneven rows. I run my hand along the back of a painted wooden one in pale teal, the edges chipped in a way that looks intentional. “What do you think? With a new seat cushion, maybe?”
“It’s cute,” she says, testing its weight with a small lift. “Solid too. No wobbly legs.”
I tag it and keep going, weaving between a small round table with a worn oak top and a square one with spindly metal legs. I can already see them sanded down, painted in soft colors, grouped in little clusters in the bakery. A cozy mix—nothing matching, but everything working together.
Mom calls me over to a corner where two ladder-back chairs sit stacked on top of each other. “These would be adorable with a fresh coat of paint,” she says, lifting the top one down. “Yellow, maybe?”
I grin. “You’re reading my mind.”
We keep exploring, me crouching to peek under tables for price tags, her running her fingers over the spines of books stacked on a sideboard. We find a narrow bench with peeling white paint, the wood underneath warm and honey-colored where it shows through. “This would be perfect by the front window,” I say, already picturing people sitting there with coffee and pastries.
