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“Okay. I’ll tell her to do a little write up for you. I know she’s been there, to your restaurant. She loves it. She even offered to take me.”
Weston frowns. “Why haven’t you come in?”
She takes her bag from the counter, and Sinbad starts pulling her toward the door. “I’ve eaten there, young man, when you had your community event for Pawsh. I think you’re very nice and all, but that’s not my kind of food.”
I press my lips together to keep from laughing, and Weston holds the door for Mrs. Perkins.
“See you later, honey,” she calls over her shoulder. We watch as Sinbad lifts his leg to pee on someone’s bike tire.
Weston looks at me, Mrs. Perkins’ polite insult sinking in, and I just can’t help myself a moment longer.
I burst out laughing.
I laugh so hard I can’t breathe, and Weston watches me in shock, probably convinced by now that I am a pyscho girl, the kind who goes from tears to laugher in a matter of seconds, the kind of girl that every smart guy knows to avoid.
But instead of bolting, he starts laughing too. The corners of his eyes crinkle, and his wide smile shows off crooked lower teeth. He actually leans onto the counter for support, laying his head on his arm, until he’s done.
I am so surprised to see him crack up I almost stop laughing myself. Almost.
While I watch Weston, I go back to his comment that I don’t have to leave this place. That he may be able to help me.
If he really means that, then I suppose I could make a deal with the devil. Maybe the olive branch he extended isn’t as poisonous as it seems.
Because at some point, pride and forgiveness don’t matter a hell of a lot.
Not when survival does.
Priorities, yo.
Do I step aside and watch everything I’ve built crumble like a house of cards? Or swallow my bruised ego and see what Weston means when he offers help?
That would mean teaming up with the very men who shattered my trust, but with my back against the wall as it is, the answer is as clear as it is complicated. I need all the help I can get and I’d be a fucking prideful fool for turning any away.
I could lose my business… or set my ego aside and accept help. Of course, this means my entanglement with the guys will need some... consideration.
Hell, I need all the allies I can get right now, and it seems like it’s time to repair the relationships that were growing to mean more to me than I ever cared to admit.
49
ENZO
Damn if Westondidn’t work his pretty-boy magic on Livvy.
I don’t know what he said or did, but she’s here now, in Weston’s tin can of an office. Why we’re crammed in here when we have other places we could go—like the restaurant downstairs—is beyond me, but while we’re all side-eyeing each other, embarrassed by the litany of conflicts that’ve erupted over the last few days. I think we’re finally committed to doing the work we need to in order to keep our businesses healthy.
Swallowing one’s pride might not be easy or even pleasant, but when your back is up against the wall, like mine literally is at this moment in Weston’s office, you realize it’s a small sacrifice to make to save something you’ve poured your heart and soul into for the past two-plus years.
We guys created something amazing. We have a solid business. We can’t let one setback send us running like scared little bitches.
Just like it’s hard to fathom that EastSide is facing some pretty big challenges, the same goes for Livvy’s shop.
From the outside, her little boutique, with its cream and white striped awning and black-letter signage in the windows, looks like a place where fancy Parisian boutique meets canine and feline couture. Her velvet dog beds, feathered cat hats, and jeweled collars are the ultimate shopping experience for upscale pet owners and their little princes and princesses.
Who’d guess that the place currently has a black cloud hanging over its little head.
Just like EastSide does.
It’s bullshit, plain and simple. And Weston seems to think he’s found a possible solution.
