Page 49 of Do It With Me

Holden: Eh, I dabble.

I smiled so wide, my cheeks hurt.

Me: Thanks for all your help! I’ll send more pics when it’s done, but it’s already looking good.

As I navigated out of my messages, I exhaled deeply and did my best to put Holden out of my head for now. He’d been an absolute godsend, not only for all the help he’d been giving me today, but also for encouraging me to pursue this in the first place.

It was yet another idea that had been floating through my mind for ages, but I’d been so focused on everything else that I wasn’t sure I would ever have put it into motion if not for that chat with him. That very naked, very intimate chat. In his freaking bed.

My cheeks flushed at just the memory of it all, but honestly, with him, I didn’t want to help myself. I could. My body wasn’t betraying me or anything. I just didn’t want to resist him.

I wanted him. In my life. In my bed. Evidently, even in my business. I just didn’t know how to do it in a way that would be fair to him. Hot Mess couldn’t exactly be a tempting label in a woman to someone like him.

While I tried and failed to stop thinking about him, I snapped some more pictures of the progress, posing for selfies with some of the others holding their items. We also took individual pictures of everyone with their part of the display and staged some of the products for close-up photographs.

With some social media fodder in my gallery, I finally went to collect my clipboard. The process of inventorying and pricing all these new items was painstakingly slow, but while I busied myself making sure no one would lose money or stock, Marguerite started scheduling posts and creating a bit of buzz in our community online.

Mrs. Castillo made everyone coffee and Mr. Park was complaining to everyone who would listen about the cost of bird seed. For the first time in ages, however, as I watched them all interact, I had hope again.

Our community was strong and tightly knit. We truly cared about each other and maybe that would be enough to ensure that we didn’t collapse under pressure from this developer, whoever they were. Maybe they would give us the opportunity to stay on no matter how many people sold.

The afternoon flew by in a blur of caffeine, carefully controlled chaos in the store, and a lot of laughter. Once the others went home, I continued pricing, making sure every last item had a tag on it, not only saying how much it cost, but who it belonged to.

Eventually, I kicked off my shoes and did some of my own admin. I shared the posts on social media and finally sent Holden a dozen pictures of the shop’s new section. The shelves were now filled with local crafts and I included the sign that said Made Right Here, as well as the smiling faces of everyone who’d stopped by.

Me: Look what we pulled off today.

Me: Also, we’re starting something new. Second Story Sunday. It’ll be like a tiny neighborhood market right outside the shop. Everyone sets up tables, sells their stuff, makes a little money. I figured it’d bring in more foot traffic.

I hit send and set the phone down, trying not to obsess over when he’d reply. A minute later, it buzzed.

Holden: Second Story Sunday?

Me: Thought it had a nice ring to it.

Holden: It’s genius. That’ll get the whole area talking about you. I’m seriously impressed.

I smiled so hard, my cheeks hurt again. I’d spent most of the day running on caffeine and adrenaline, but reading that made me feel like I’d just downed an espresso shot straight into my soul.

Holden: You heading home?

Me: Yeah. I’m starving, though. Might grab something on the way.

Holden: Let me buy you dinner.

My heart did a stupid little flip.

Me: There’s a taco truck not far from my apartment building. Meet me there if you want the best food in the city.

Holden: Taco truck? I’m in. Text me the address.

I sent it, feeling a spark of nervous excitement flutter to life. Tacos, not white tablecloths. Paper napkins, not linen. This was my world and I couldn’t wait to see what Holden looked like standing in the glow of a food truck in an expensive suit and wearing that easy smile. The billionaire and the broke girl, meeting in the middle of a city street with grease on their fingers and hot sauce on their lips.

In my head, it sounded like the beginning of a joke, but in my heart, I was hoping that it was the beginning of a story. A story I couldn’t really afford to be starting right now, and yet, somehow, I didn’t want to stop trying to write it.