Something flickered across his face before he bent to sling his tool bag over his shoulder. “I’ll figure it out.”
And that was it. He was moving toward the door, leaving me standing in the middle of my soggy battlefield, staring after him as the familiar, crushing weight pressed onto my shoulders.
“Wait.” My voice squeaked.
At the threshold, he paused, his hand braced against the frame. Without turning, he said, “Yes?”
“Can I help you?” I took a step toward him. “With the booths, I mean. As a… payment for the plumbing repairs?
Rhett’s jaw clenched. He had to know it was a bad idea. I didn’t even know where the water shut-off valve was—how was I supposed to help him build custom booths from a pile of wood? But I needed this. On top of everything else, I couldn’t deal with the guilt of this strangerpityingme.
“Sure.”
He didn’t look back. The bell rang as it swung closed behind him, the only thing proving that I hadn’t hallucinated. I sank to the floor, a sodden towel squelching beneath me, my hair sticking in frizzing tendrils around my face.
The shop smelled like wet plaster and wilting dreams. My ferns sagged, leaves heavy with the onslaught of water, as though mourning alongside me.
I buried my face in my hands. I swore to save this place, to prove to everyone—Margot, Wes, Serena, Teddy—that bettingmy future on Bluebell Cove wasn’t a mistake. But tonight it felt like all I’d done was prove them right.
Still…
Rhett had vowed to stay and fix it.
And for reasons I couldn’t begin to explain, that thought kept me from dissolving into a lump of worry.
Which is when I decided: fine. He could hate every second of this—but we were stuck together, and I was annoyingly good at making the best of things.
Chapter Seven
Iwas late.
Not fashionably late, and not even I-overslept-through-my-alarm late. More like I-looked-at-the-disaster-zone-of-my-life-and-hit-snooze-three-times late.
By the time I trudged down Main Street, my hair was still damp from the world’s fastest shower, my hoodie had a questionable coffee stain, and my sneakers squeaked faintly from yesterday’s disaster. Not exactly an outfit that made me feel confident confronting the ruins of my business.
The door of the Morning Bell chimed as I slipped inside. Stark midmorning light streamed in through the windows, casting a bright sheen on the already half-full cafe. After a beat of hesitation, I pushed the hood off my head and plastered on my usual smile. I waved to the Wednesday book club ladies in the far corner and the owner of Cove’s Treasures, Lorenzo, stationed at the bar. He returned to his newspaper with the arch of an eyebrow.
“What happened toyou?” Rachel all-but shouted from the espresso machine.
“Is it that bad?” I responded, smoothing my hair and frowning down at the faded stain on my chest. In this light, it looked twelve shades darker.
She poured the shot in a tiny cup, placed it on a saucer, and slid it to Lorenzo. “You look like you need a quad shot and twelve hours of sleep,” Rachel teased as she leaned beside the register.
I rubbed my eyes and groaned. “Marigold’s is in really bad shape,” I whispered through my fingers, “I just don’t—actually, never mind. You know what?” Dropping my hands, I retrieved a scrunchie from my pocket and began gathering my wild curls into a ponytail. “I’ll take you up on that quad shot.”
Rachel watched me with thinly veiled concern as I rifled through my other pocket and pulled out a handful of crumpled, half-soggy bills.
“Found this in the couch cushions last night,” I mumbled, flattening them on the counter before handing them to her. “My jeans didn’t have enough time in the dryer. That’s why they’re-”
“Damp,” Rachel finished, wrinkling her nose as she held them between two fingers.
“Well, yes, but—”
“Still money,” she continued again.
“Right.”
Rachel shook her head and laughed under her breath as she rang me up.
