I glance at my phone on the coffee table. 8:30 p.m.
I exhale, stretching my arms overhead, my sweatshirt riding up slightly as my back pops. Who the fuck is showing up at my house at this hour?
Maybe Miller. That’s the only explanation that makes sense. If she found something—anything—on how to fight the health department shutdown, she’d be the type to come storming over, ready to put a plan into motion.
It’s been two days since the Bluebell closed, and the weight of it is crushing me. Two days of calls to the health department, two days of staring at financial spreadsheets until my vision blurred, two days of trying to act like I have some sort of plan when I don’t.
I drag a hand over my face, trying to shake off the exhaustion that clingsto me like a second skin. The stress has been relentless. I haven’t slept more than a few hours at a time. I barely eat. Every second I’m awake, I’m thinking about the Bluebell, about the employees counting on me, about Hudson—
Hudson.
I glance toward the staircase. He came home early from school today, sick with a fever and a stomachache, throwing up every few hours. As if I didn’t already have enough to deal with. But that’s just the life of being a mom. No off days, no breaks.
The knocking comes again. Jesus.
I shuffle toward the door, dragging a hand through my hair that definitely looks like it lost a fight with a small animal. My old Dodgers sweatshirt is hanging off me like it gave up hours ago, and my sweatpants are slouched at the ankles. I probably look like I just rolled out of a ditch.
I’m in no shape for small talk. Or people. Or whatever fresh hell is waiting on the other side of that door. But if this is Miller, I need whatever news she’s bringing.
I take a steadying breath and swing the door open.
Only, it’s not Miller standing there.
It’s Boone.
And I’m too tired, too drained, too fucking worn out to deal with him right now.
Boone tilts his head, eyes dragging over me like he’s trying to decide whether I’ve just survived a natural disaster or created one.
“Wow,” he says, dragging the word out. “You look—”
I level him with a flat stare. “Don’t finish that sentence.”
His lips twitch, the ghost of a laugh threatening to break free. “I was gonna say—”
“I don’t care.”
He laughs, shaking his head, leaning against the doorframe like he’s not planning on going anywhere.
“I was coming to check on you,” he says, eyes still watching me too closely. “Hadn’t heard much from you the last couple days.”
I cross my arms over my chest, more for warmth than any real attempt at shutting him out. “Didn’t realize I owed you updates on my life.”
He ignores that, his gaze sweeping behind me like he’s trying to get a read on the house. “You eaten anything?”
I roll my eyes. Really?That’shis first question? “I’m fine.”
Boone raises a brow, unimpressed.
“Seriously,” I say, already anticipating whatever argument he’s about to throw my way. “I don’t need you to—”
Too late.
He’s already stepping inside, brushing past me like he pays the mortgage.
My brows shoot up. “Oh, great. Just make yourself at home.”
He smirks, way too pleased with himself. “Thanks, I think I will.”
