Page 194 of Property of Bob

Eight months ago, I would’ve laughed if someone had told me I’d be standing here.

Actually, no.

Eight months ago, I probably would’ve cried.

The divorce had been finalized eight months ago, but it had taken me another two months before I’d been capable of doing much of anything except feeling sorry for myself. Looking back, I probably deserved those two months. Finding out your husband had been cheating on you with at least six different women tended to put a damper on a person’s motivation.

At least six.

The number still made me want to roll my eyes.

Every few weeks somebody seemed to uncover another one. At this point I wasn’t sure if the number was six, seven, ten, or twenty.

Not that it mattered.

One would’ve been enough. Bruce hadn’t just cheated. He’d made a damn hobby out of it.

The worst part wasn’t even the cheating itself. It was realizing how much of my life I’d spent making myself smaller for someone who’d never appreciated it in the first place.

Bruce always had plans.

Bruce always had dreams.

Bruce always had hobbies.

If he wanted something, we found a way to make it happen. When I wanted something, suddenly there wasn’t enough money or it wasn’t realistic.

Opening an ice cream shop had always fallen into the unrealistic category.

Every time I brought it up, he’d smile that patronizing smile of his and tell me it was a cute idea.

Cute.

I hated that word.

Cute was what people called ideas they didn’t take seriously. Cute was what people called dreams they expected you to outgrow.

Turns out there was nothing cute about spending six months renovating a building mostly by yourself.

My shoulders still hurt from moving freezers. My knees still hurt from laying tile. And there was definitely nothing cute about balancing budgets and wondering if you were about to spend every penny you’d saved on a dream that might fail.

I looked around the shop again and smiled.

Maybe it would fail. Maybe it wouldn’t.

The shop wasn’t perfect. There were still little things I’d probably change over time. The menu board would eventually need updating. I’d probably rearrange the toppings station at least fifty times before I was happy with it. Right now, there was only me running the place, which meant I would be scooping ice cream, cleaning tables, washing dishes, handling inventory, balancing books, and doing about seventeen other jobs at the same time.

The sudden roar of a motorcycle pulled me from my thoughts.

I glanced toward the front windows just as a black motorcycle rolled down Main Street. The sound echoed off the buildings lining the street before the rider slowed and turned into the parking lot across from Scoop & Swirl.

My gaze followed automatically to the tattoo shop. Bad Habit.

I’d seen the place plenty of times over the last six months, but I’d been so focused on getting my own business ready that I hadn’t paid much attention to who came and went.

The motorcycle came to a stop, and the rider swung off.

And holy hell. I blinked, and then blinked again.