Chapter 12
Eden
M y potted cactus hits the bottom of the cardboard box with a dull thud. Three years of trying to keep the stupid thing alive in my corner office, and all it did was mock me with its stubborn refusal to thrive.
The pencil holder follows—rainbow metallic, because apparently I thought that screamed 'professional woman.' A handful of planners, each one color-coded and filled with meetings I never wanted to attend.
Post-it notes in every shade imaginable. And the stickers. Oh god, so many stickers. Who was I kidding with all these “Girl Boss” motivational labels?
“That's fucked,” I mutter, slumping onto my bed. Used tissues litter my designer duvet, casualties of the past hour's breakdown in my boss's office. My very ex-boss's office.
The look on her face when I finally snapped during the spring collection meeting—somewhere between horror and fascination, like watching a car crash in slow motion.
I should feel terrified. I just torched my career in spectacular fashion. Instead, all I feel is... light. Like I can finally breathe.
The buzzer startles me out of my spiral. I drag myself to the intercom, fully prepared to tell whatever delivery person to leave the package downstairs.
After all the crying I’ve done my makeup's probably halfway to my chin, and I'm still wearing my “power suit”—although the jacket's crumpled on the floor somewhere between the door and my impromptu packing session.
“Princess?” Jack's voice crackles through the speaker.
My heart stops. “Jack?”
Ninety seconds later—not that I counted each footstep running down four flights—I throw open my apartment door. He's there, overnight bag slung over his shoulder, looking deliciously rumpled from travel.
“What are you doing here? You weren't due until next week.” My voice catches. God, he's a sight for sore eyes.
He drops his bag, eyes scanning my face with concern. “I wanted to surprise you.” His thumb brushes my cheek, wiping away a mascara streak I missed. “I couldn't stay away. One week felt like—” He stops, taking in the chaos behind me. “Have you been crying?”
I laugh wetly. “Maybe a little. Or a lot. Define crying.”
“Eden.” His eyes drift from my tear-stained face to the explosion of office supplies behind me, then back to me.
The concern in his eyes tugs at something deep in my chest. “I've got some news.”
“What a coincidence.” I haven't moved from the doorway, my knuckles white on the handle. “So do I.”
“Hang on. I need to get this out before I lose my nerve.”
He runs a hand through his already disheveled hair, and my heart melts a little. This is my Jack—the confident bar owner who can handle drunk patrons and budget spreadsheets without breaking a sweat—actually nervous.
“I hired a manager for the HideOut. He's starting next week, taking over the night shifts and?—”
I freeze. The bar is his life, his legacy. Every vintage poster, every carefully crafted cocktail recipe, every regular who comes in feeling like family - it's all pure Jack. And he's willing to step back from all of it?
“I've been thinking about it since that night we talked about the boutique,” he continues, words rushing out now. “I don't want to do weekends anymore. Don't want to plan our lives around train schedules or count the hours between visits.”
“What are you saying?” My voice catches, hope and fear tangling in my throat.
“I'm saying I'm moving to the city. If you want me to.” His eyes search mine, vulnerable yet determined. “We can figure out the bar details later, but you—you're what matters.”
”Oh, Jack.” I throw myself into his arms, peppering his face with kisses. His stubble scratches my lips, and he smells like coffee and that leather jacket he always wears, and he's here, willing to upend his whole life for me. But I can't let him - not when I've got news of my own.
“Princess, princess—you're choking me.” He laughs, but his arms tighten around me anyway.
“You don't need to do that.” I pull back, laughing through tears as I glance at the cardboard box behind me. My sad little cactus sits atop a mountain of color-coded planners and enough organizational supplies to stock a small Office Depot. “I quit my job. I'm moving home.”
His hands freeze on my waist. “You what?”
“I quit. Apparently telling your boss that fast fashion is killing both creativity and the planet isn't the best career move.” I wipe my eyes. “Also, I may have mentioned something about soulless corporate puppets. And used your favorite phrase about 'authentic design.'“
A slow grin spreads across his face. “You didn't.”
“Oh, I did. Complete with air quotes.” I look back at the box. “Oh my god, so many stickers. It's like an explosion in a glitter factory in there. Who was I trying to fool with all this 'Girlboss' stuff anyway?”
His whole face lights up, and suddenly I'm airborne as he lifts me off my feet. “So we're doing this? The boutique?”
The joy in his expression makes my heart flip, but reality crashes back in. “Wait.” I press my hands against his chest as he sets me down. “Are you sure about the bar? Really sure? Because I know what it means to you, and I don't want you to?—”
“Eden.” He catches my hands in his. “The bar's not going anywhere. Tony’s been asking for more responsibility for months. He loves the place almost as much as I do.” His lips quirk. “Almost.”
“But—”
“But nothing. You're not the only one who's been dreaming, Princess.” He reaches for his overnight bag, rummaging through it. “Here.”
He pulls out a folder, dog-eared and coffee-stained. Inside are printouts—financial projections, renovation estimates, even a rough floor plan of the empty storefront. My heart squeezes when I see his messy handwriting in the margins: 'Display window perfect for Eden's designs' and 'Keep original hardwood floors?'
“How long have you been planning this?”
“Since that first napkin sketch.” He shrugs, looking almost shy. “I figured one of us would crack eventually. Although I have to say, 'soulless corporate puppets' wasn't exactly how I pictured it happening.”
I eye the box of supplies, “I might have gone overboard with the planning materials.”
“Oh! And one more thing.” He reaches into his bag again and pulls out a tangled mess of Christmas lights. They're the same kind he uses at the bar—the cheap ones that never hang quite straight.
“Jack...” My voice wobbles.
“They're not fancy enough for your city apartment,” he says, wrestling with the tangled lights. “But I thought... for the boutique windows. Practice, you know?”
And that's what breaks me. Not his carefully planned folder of sketches, not my secret designs - but these cheap Christmas lights he stuffed in his bag and carried on a train, just to make me smile.
“I love you,” I blurt, tears spilling over. “I love you, and your crooked Christmas lights, and your small-town bar, and how you believe in me even when I'm obsessing over color-coded planners.”
He abandons the lights and pulls me close. “I love you too, Princess.” His kiss is soft, certain. “Now, how about we start packing up this place? A certain storefront is waiting for these fancy designs of yours.”
A small-town bar owner and a city fashion designer shouldn't make sense.
But we do.
“Can't wait to welcome you home properly,” he murmurs against my lips, and kisses me again.
Later, we sit cross-legged on my apartment floor, surrounded by tangled Christmas lights and scattered papers. Jack's trying to unknot the lights while I organize our combined plans into my least glittery planner.
“You know what this means?” I ask, sketching a quick design in the margin.
“That we should invest in better Christmas lights?”
“That too.” I lean against him, watching him work. “But I meant the boutique next to the bar. Our kids are going to have the weirdest how-we-met story ever.”
His hands still on the lights. “Kids, huh?”
“Eventually.” I feel my cheeks warm. “I mean, assuming you want?—”
“I want everything with you, Eden.” He gives up on the lights and pulls me into his lap. “The boutique, the bar, the badly decorated Christmas windows. All of it.”
Through my window, the city lights twinkle against the winter sky. But they don't call to me. My future is with a bar owner who carries tangled strings of lights across state lines to make me smile.
“All of it,” I echo, and mean it with every fiber of my being.