Easton sprawled belly-up in a sunbeam near the window, snoring and twitching every few seconds. I envied how easy he made the calm look. Instead, I shoved the last of my croissant in my mouth and tried to convince myself that this was all normal. Healthy, even.
“Georgie!”
Margot’s voice carried through the front door before I could stop her, followed by the unmistakable click of high heels on wood.
I dropped the Morning Bell bag onto the counter and rubbed my temples. “Please tell me you didn’t—”
Too late. Margot swept into the shop, hair gleaming in a twist, not a single strand daring to escape. She could’ve been headed to brunch: cream-colored jumpsuit, snakeskin belt, and black platforms that threw light with every step.
“—dress like you’re headed to the Met Gala?” I finished weakly.
“It’s called beingpresentable,” she said breezily, leaning down to pat Easton’s belly. He whined for more when she stopped, traitor that he was. “Besides, I figured you’d need moral support. And maybe someone with an eye for design.”
“You’re going to ruin that jumpsuit.”
She waved a manicured hand. “Then it was time for a new one anyway.”
I laughed despite myself, because of course she’d say that. “Okay, fine, but don’t expect me to reimburse you for any damaged designer goods.”
“Don’t worry, I can handle it,” Margot replied, striding deeper into the shop. She pulled her phone from her bag, scowled, tapped something quickly, and slipped it back without a word.
I raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
We started with the back wall. I’d already cleared away the wilted arrangements and both of the floral coolers, but the built-in counter would demand some creativity. My plan was to refinish it somehow, maybe using the shelving underneath for spare pottery that wouldn’t fit in the backroom. Margot stood with her arms crossed, pretending to supervise.
“Don’t just stand there,” I said, pointing toward a stack of boxes filled with bags of soil, floral arranging materials, and watering cans. “Grab one of those and start hauling.”
Her nose wrinkled. “Do I look like ahauler?”
“No, but you look like someone who offered to help, and that’s close enough.” Sighing, I nodded toward the back door. “They need to get stacked in the alley. Someone from the thrift store is coming to pick them up later.”
She huffed but obediently tottered toward the pile. One box later, and she gracefully perched on the next one like a cardboard throne. “Thatwas manual labor. I think I need electrolytes.”
I bit back a grin. “Electrolytes? You carried a box twenty feet.”
“Carried it in style,” she corrected.
For the next hour we made slow progress, interrupted constantly by Margot’s commentary: how the light would beso much betterif we knocked down the front wall, how pottery was “having a moment,” how she couldn’t believe I didn’t want to paint a mural. Her phone buzzed every ten minutes. She’d step aside, lips tightening, thumb flicking across the screen.
“You know, you’re supposed to be helping me, not checking your email every two seconds,” I teased at one point, leaning on the wall.
She jumped, then shoved the phone back in her pocket. “Iamhelping. Emotional support counts, doesn’t it?”
“Sure,” I drawled, but my stomach began to knot. Margot’s opinions were nothing new to me—but she’d never been so distracted before.
Later, she abandoned her shoes entirely and padded around barefoot, muttering about ruined pedicures. I could barely contain my laugh each time she glanced down at her once-pristine outfit with something like genuine betrayal.
“This isnothow I imagined my day going,” she said, wiping her forehead with the back of her hand.
“Welcome to the glamorous life of entrepreneurship,” I muttered, coughing as dust settled in the air. “But maybe you could wear flat shoes next time.”
She gave me a look like I’d sworn at her, then abruptly bent down to swipe something off the floor—her phone again. Another message, another quick flick of her thumb across the screen.
“Everything okay?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
Her head snapped up. “Fine. Totally fine.” She smiled, but it looked unnatural. “Just… work stuff.”
“Bad?”
