Chapter 11
Zzzzzzzzzzzz *pop*.
I wake to the sound of zipping and snapping. It stammers through the room, stopping and starting, relentless in its rhythm, dragging my focus with the frustration of something that won’t stay fixed. Brain fuzzy, I roll over in bed and squint at the clock.
I groan, rolling onto my back. I don’t normally sleep this late—possibly residual effects from the hangover and underestimating the recovery time my aging body needs.
Then a tractor roars to life, the engine’s vibrations shudder the old widows of my house, pulling me out of the last threads of fog clouding my mind. I bolt up, heart pounding a little too fast. I’m not sure if I want to strangle the guy with the damn tractor or thank him for getting me out of bed.
Another groan, I pull myself out of the sheets and shuffle to the window. I peer behind my curtains. A whole damn crew is working in my yard, their various tools orchestrating a mechanical symphony nobody wants to hear on a Sunday morning.
One man’s down on his knees by my flower beds, picking at weeds with meticulous care. I wince as I see another man running the hedge trimmers over my once-beautiful bushes, now long overdue for a makeover.
What the hell is going on?
I rub my eyes, willing the sleep away. Maybe I’m still dreaming. But no, the guys are real. The hum of the tractor is real. And the way they’re working is way too… much.
I grab my glasses off the nightstand, focusing on my reflection in the mirror.
Damn it. I look like I’ve been dragged through a bush backward.
It’s the only reasonable explanation for this level of disarray.
Shaking my head, I throw a cardigan over my cotton shorts sleep set, head to the front door, and swing it open.
The morning air is a little too cool against my skin as I pad across the porch to the older man working on my flower beds. He looks up and grins, that easy kind of smile that says I’ve just made his day by showing up.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to sound polite despite my confusion, “but can you tell me what you’re doing?”
He gives me a nod, his hands continuing to pluck weeds from the soil.
“Well, ma’am, it’s important to weed these flower beds in Texas in the spring, especially with the heat coming in.
These weeds’ll take over faster than you can blink if you don’t stay on top of ‘em.” He pauses for a moment, looking over to the hedges.
“And these overgrown bushes need trimming. I’ll get ‘em cleaned up real nice, don’t worry. ”
I feel my face flush with a little embarrassment.
The weeds, the hedges… I’ve been putting it off for weeks, maybe longer.
I try to get in as much yardwork as I can while Bash is with his dad.
I could’ve sworn I touched those hedges last month, but life has a way of slipping past when you’re not looking.
I clear my throat. “Thank you for explaining all that…” I pause, looking for his name on his work shirt.
“Allen.”
“But what I’d really like to know, Allen, is… why are you here? I mean—what’s going on?” I ask.
His smile widens, and he wipes his hands on his knees. “Well, ma’am, Mr. Alvarez called us yesterday. Said to come by and take care of everything. You don’t have to worry about a thing. I owe Mr. Alvarez a favor. Real good guy. Shouldn’t take but a few hours to get it all looking right.”
Hex.
I don't know whether to be grateful or freaked out about this unexpected turn of events. But it’s definitely leaning toward the latter.
My phone buzzes, and I nearly jump out of my skin. I tug it from my cardigan pocket, heart stuttering as I glance at the screen, half expecting the stalker to be back with a new early morning shit storm for me.
But no. It’s not her. It’s not the blonde psycho.
[unknown number]: Mornin’ Legs.
I blink, reading the simple message again. This has to be Hex. My gaze flicks around the yard, nerves sparking with the sense that he’s already watching, just out of sight. I pull my cardigan tighter around myself, glue my thighs together, and smooth my hair down instinctively.
I respond, trying to keep my cool.
[Sable]: How did you get my number?
His reply is quick—almost too casual.
[unknown number]: It’s on the Thorne Revival website. Not so suspicious.
I can’t help but laugh a little, but I’m still a bit wary. He’s not exactly the by-the-book type, but there’s a strange comfort in how direct he is.
[unknown number]: Get yourself ready. Coffee or tea kind of girl?
I bite my lip and pull it inside my mouth, fingers hovering over the screen.
[Sable]: Definitely Coffee. Are we going to breakfast? What’s happening?
[unknown number]: I’m in charge. I’ll bring your caffeine fix, but you’ll need to get dressed. Long pants, thick jacket if you’ve got one. I won’t let you go hungry.
I freeze.
[Sable]: Like a parka? Ice fishing in Texas?
He doesn’t miss a beat.
[unknown number]: I’d love to see you in leather.
My stomach does a triple-fucking-axle, and I can’t stop the involuntary shiver that runs through me. Damn, this man is not subtle.
[unknown number]: I’ll be there in about an hour and a half. Get moving.
My head spins as I read his last message. Leather? What the hell? Is he being serious or just messing with me? I glance out at the yard where the men are working.
My heart is hammering, and I rush inside, nearly tripping over my own feet. I have no idea what I’m supposed to wear, but I’ll figure it out.
Twenty minutes later, I jump from a knock at my door. Panic floods my veins. I’m barely ready!
I scramble out of my closet and to the door, smoothing my cardigan down and hoping I look somewhat presentable. I haven’t even slipped into what I’m painstakingly deciding on wearing.
When I open it, I sigh in relief. The youngest guy from the yard crew holds out a cup.
“Good Morning,” he says, glowing with amusement. “From Mr. Alvarez.”
I let out a relieved breath and smile. “Thank you,” I say graciously, taking the beverage from him. It’s warm in my hands, a nice contrast to the cold panic settling in my chest.
I nod to him. “Tell… Mr. Alvarez… thanks. Really.”
As he walks away, I stand in the doorway for a moment, staring at the cup in my hands. This is insane. I’ve never experienced anything like this. I head back inside, clicking the door closed behind me.
The house is quiet, but my thoughts are anything but. I walk into the bathroom, set the coffee on the counter, and brush my hair out of my face. I start to work through my routine, but my mind keeps circling back to the glaring difference between Hex and Andrew already.
Andrew. God. It’s like he never even tried.
Ten years, and he couldn’t remember the smallest things about me.
How do you take your coffee? How do you like your eggs?
You’d think after a decade, he’d have those things locked down.
But no, I had to tell him everything. Otherwise, default nothing.
Kind words only left his mouth when working to persuade.
What do you want to do today?
That would’ve been a start, right? But no, I never got that. He never made plans, never surprised me. Not even on my birthday.
I used to wait for something, anything, to show me he gave a damn. A call, a text, a gesture. But they never came. And after a while, I stopped expecting them. Stopped even getting upset when birthdays would come and go with no recognition.
It dawns on me: I’ve never felt what it’s like to have someone remember the little things. That old ache stirs in my chest. The ache that hits when I realize I’d been alone in that relationship, despite living under the same roof. Even after creating a life with him.
I drag myself back to the present, checking myself in the mirror as I move through my morning ritual. I let the water from the sink run over my hands like the thoughts streaming through my head. What should I put on?
I glance at my underwear drawer, hesitating as I take a sip of my deliciously warm coffee. Should I make sure my bra and panties match? Do I even have anything like that? Should I even care? Would that be trying too hard? I’m not trying to impress him. It’s just a first date… right? Is this a date?
But the possibility of getting it wrong, of giving the impression that I’m barely holding it together, sends a rush of heat straight to my chest.
I go for the one matching set I own. Simple. Comfortable. Nothing too flashy. Anything could happen and I’ll be damned if I’m accidently wearing period panties today.
I wrinkle my nose at the thought. Then again, maybe I should wear them. I shouldn’t get all worked up about what he’ll think of my underwear on the first damn date. That’s ridiculous. He’s not going to see under my clothes. I do have a shred of standards left. Don’t I?
I let out a breath and move on, keeping my underwear choice and working on more pressing matters.
I glance at my legs in the mirror and groan.
Okay. Fine. I snatch my razor for the hasty job.
I don’t have the luxury of time to do it right.
Mentally, I can already feel the burn. But whatever.
If I don’t do this, I’m going to panic and regret not trying.
Thank God Demi talked me into a discounted Brazilian wax with her last week. Because nothing says great idea more than ripping hair off your vagina at half price. I’d never waxed anything before, and the thought of getting smooth on the cheap sounded… tempting.
I left that hellhole with my right lip swollen to botched-filler proportions and the distinct feeling they’d torn each hair straight from my central nervous system. Still, I’d achieved dolphin-smoothness in all the right places, one bright spot in the freefall of my mental health.
I finish in record time, and one glance in the mirror confirms the job looks rushed.
I grimace at the stubble I already see I missed at my ankles, but I shake it off.
I’m wearing pants for fuck’s sake, but I’m determined to look presentable for him.
Hex... whatever this is with him feels different, and I’m starting to panic in a way I’m not used to.
Hex is coming, and whether I’m ready or not, I’ve got to go figure out what the hell this is all about.
I’m so caught up in my thoughts that I barely notice time slipping by.
Thirty more minutes.
If Hex can help me deal with my stalker, in a non-murdery way, then hell, I’d throw myself at him. Not that I wouldn’t throw myself at him just for the coffee. Or for the HGTV-level yard makeover. But putting a lid on Stalker Barbie? That would make my life infinitely better.
Twenty-eight minutes. That’s all I’ve got to get my life together and pull myself into a semblance of normalcy. How do I even begin to act like this isn’t all a little crazy?
I settle on a pair of tight jeans, my favorite worn-in combat boots, and a casual shirt that clings in all the right places. I reach way back into my closet, fingers grazing over something familiar.
A leather jacket.
It’s from my college days, back when I worked promotions for a motorcycle shop and spent my nights line dancing on bar tops without a care in the world.
Those gigs were wild, and I liked to pretend my marketing skills got me the job, not my ass in a pair of Daisy Dukes.
But that false confidence built something real.
It built my agency. My career. Over time, my clients became more corporate, more buttoned-up. And, somewhere along the way, so did I.
I had shoved that side of me—the reckless, fun, alive side—into the back of my closet with this jacket.
And as I slide my arms into it, rolling my shoulders to loosen the stiff leather, I feel an ember of my old self flicker. I flip my hair out from under the collar, then catch my reflection in the mirror.
And I smile.
Because I recognize the woman looking back at me.