Page 53 of If I Didn’t Have You

“Oh, can’t complain. Things are busy. Lots to do today.”

“I can see that. How’s the family?”

“Good, good,” he nodded. “So, what can I help you with?”

“Uh…well, I’m redoing the living room for Clara. I thought I would pick out some paint. The drywall is going up soon, and I’d like to have some samples for her to pick out.”

“Oh, well, you can definitely take some samples home, but I’m afraid we can’t sell you paint without written permission from Clara.”

I barked out a laugh at that, but there was no humor on his face.

“Seriously?”

“‘Fraid so.”

“But it’s my house.”

Leaning on the counter, he kept his voice low. “Son, do you realize how many angry wives have stormed through these doors, demanding a refund because I sold their husbands paint they didn’t approve of? After the Clemonson debacle, I vowed to never sell another can to a man without written approval.”

“What if it’s a surprise?”

“Nope, not even then.”

“But it would ruin the surprise.”

“And their anger will ruin my business. Now, if you can find a way to get approval without her knowing the precise details…Well, I suppose I could work around that.”

That was all bullshit. “Let’s say I’m building a man cave?”

“Still need written approval.”

My jaw hardened in anger. “Fine, then I want to repaint the inside of the tiny home on wheels.”

He winced, ducking his head. “Sorry, I heard about that.”

“It only happened last night,” I snapped.

“Yep, and it was all over town by morning.”

This fucking town… “Well, I’m living there now. I want to paint it something more my style.”

“Mhmm, mhmm,” he nodded, sliding a slip of paper over to me. “I’ll just need written consent from Blake.”

“But,” I spluttered, growing angrier by the second. “I’m the one who’s fucking living there!”

“And it’s Blake’s house.”

“And Michael’s. He’s my son. Surely, he has just as much right to paint it!”

“Oh, he does, but as I said, with joint ownership—actually, in any case where a woman is involved, I still need a signature right there,” he said, tapping to the bottom of the paper.

I snatched the paperwork out of his hands and glared one final time before storming out of the hardware store. This was all bullshit. I didn’t need written permission from anyone, and if no one in town would sell me the damn paint, I’d just go to a neighboring town and get my supplies from a more willing seller.

“Fucking bullshit,” I muttered as I rounded the corner, only to be slapped in the face with a cold beverage that oozed down my face in a slow slide, making its way to the v-neck of my shirt. Tearing the damn thing over my head, I swiped at my face, getting the worst of it out of my eyes and nose, but there wasn’t much I could do about the sticky matter in my hair.

And when I looked around, no one was there.

I slumped on the bar stool, reeking of strawberries and milk. I had yet to really confront what had happened last night. The moment I walked out the door, my heart hardened around the words spoken to me. I couldn’t think about it, or it would send me into a depression I really couldn’t handle.