My heart jumps straight into my throat.
I look up, bracing.
It’s just a customer.
I exhale, forcing a smile as I help them, my eyes flicking back to the door every few seconds like it might betray me.
Ashton still isn’t here.
I check the clock.
She’s late.
Ofallthe days.
I try not to let irritation creep in, but it does anyway, sharp and unwelcome. Ashton is never late. She’s the kind of person who shows up early, prepared, caffeinated, and already three steps ahead of everyone else in the room.
Except today.
The bell rings again.
My pulse spikes.
Another customer.
Another exhale.
This repeats three more times—bell, panic, disappointment—until my nerves feel like exposed wire.
Finally, the door opens again.
I don’t even look up right away. I’m too tired to hope.
Then I hear her voice.
“Hey.”
I snap my head up.
“Ashton,” I say, relief and frustration crashing together. “You’re late.”
She blinks. “Good morning to you, too.”
“Do you have any idea what day it is?” I ask, lowering my voice but not my intensity. “Of all days to be late, today isnotthe day.”
She sets her bag down calmly. Too calmly.
“Ella,” she says, “you need to breathe.”
I scoff. “That’s easy for you to say.”
“It’s fine,” she says. “He’s not coming.”
I freeze. “What?”
She meets my eyes. “He’s not coming in.”
Confusion rushes in fast. “What do you mean he’s not coming in? Today is the reinspection.”
