Chapter 5
CECIE
I know the exact time because I check my phone right before the jar slips from my hand, tumbles in slow motion, and detonates across the floor like a sparkly bomb.
"No. No no no—"
Too late.
Rose gold glitter coats everything. The floor. My shoes. The bottom shelf of the display I just spent an hour organizing.
I stand very still, assess the damage, and seriously consider crying.
Welcome to your permanent storefront, Cecie. Professional. Established. Covered in craft herpes.
Orry babbles from his playpen in the corner. He's nine months old, obsessed with his feet, and blissfully unaware that Mommy's grand opening is already a disaster.
"It's fine," I tell him. "Totally fine. Glitter wipes up. Probably."
Narrator voice: Glitter does not wipe up.
I grab paper towels, which immediately shred and stick to the glitter. Then a damp cloth, which just spreads the sparkles around. Then the vacuum, which makes an alarming grinding noise and spits half the glitter back out.
By the time I give up, I look like a disco ball sneezed on me.
Orry thinks this is hilarious.
"Laugh it up, kid."
He does. Tiny baby giggles that sound like hiccups.
I can't help it. I laugh too.
The stock delivery arrives at 9:15.
Wrong lipsticks. Half the order's missing. And somehow, somehow, they've sent me twelve boxes of beard oil.
"I don't sell beard oil," I tell the delivery guy.
He shrugs. "Says here you ordered it."
"I absolutely did not."
"Take it up with the warehouse, lady."
He leaves.
I count the boxes. Twelve. Twelve.
Orry reaches for one, makes a grabby-hand motion.
"No. We are not keeping the beard oil."
He pouts.
Maybe I can return it. Or donate it. Or build a tiny beard-oil fort and live there forever.
I add "call supplier" to my mental list, which is already approximately forty-seven items long.
By noon, the shop's halfway decent.
The glitter's mostly contained. The displays are stocked with what I do have. The sign outside is crooked but legible.
And I've only cried once, which feels like a win.
Orry's napping in his playpen, one chubby fist curled against his cheek. I watch him for a second, feel that familiar tug in my heart ashalf love, half terror that I'm doing everything wrong.
You're doing fine, I tell myself. You've got this.
The bell above the door jingles.
I turn, paste on my customer-service smile.
It's a woman in yoga pants and a oversized sweater, ponytail swinging. She looks around, eyes bright.
"Oh my God, this is adorable!"
"Thanks! We're still setting up, but—"
"Do you do brows?"
"I can. What are you thinking?"
She launches into a detailed description of her brow goals, which involve the words "feathered" and "Instagram-worthy" and "my sister's wedding."
I nod, slide my kit to me and get to work.
She talks the entire time. About her sister. The wedding drama. Her boyfriend who won't commit. Her yoga instructor who might be flirting with her.
I make appropriate noises, shape her brows, and silently thank the universe for sending me a chatty customer who doesn't notice the faint rose-gold shimmer still clinging to my apron.
She leaves happy. Tips well. Promises to come back.
One down.
The muffins are Colum's fault.
He stopped by yesterday, handed me the keys with a flourish, and announced that Fishborn Financial would be "thrilled to support a fellow plaza entrepreneur."
Which was sweet.
But also slightly unhinged, because Colum doesn't do anything halfway.
So I baked muffins.
Lemon poppyseed. A thank-you gesture that's professional but not trying too hard, which is a tightrope I'm still learning to walk.
I tuck Orry into his carrier. He's awake now, gumming a teething ring, and head next door.
Fishborn Financial is sleek. Glass doors. Minimalist furniture. A reception desk that looks like it costs more than my entire inventory.
The woman behind it glances up, smiles.
"Hi! Can I help you?"
"I'm Cecie. From Sparkle Beauty next door. I, uh, brought muffins? For Colum?"
Her smile widens. "Oh! You're the makeup place!"
"That's me."
"Colum loves you. He won't shut up about the plaza revitalization." She stands, peers at Orry. "And who's this?"
"This is Orry."
"He's precious." She reaches out, wiggles her fingers. Orry stares at her, unimpressed, then shoves the teething ring back in his mouth.
"He's shy," I lie.
"Come on back. I'll grab Colum."
She leads me through the office. It's open-plan, all glass partitions and standing desks. A few people glance up, nod politely.
I feel suddenly, acutely aware of the glitter still dusting my jeans.
Professional. You look professional. Totally.
Colum appears from a side office, arms spread wide.
"Cecie! You're here!"
"I brought muffins."
"I love muffins!" He takes the basket, inspects the contents. "Lemon poppyseed. Excellent choice. You're hired."
"I already have a job."
"You're double-hired." He sets the basket on a nearby desk, starts pulling out muffins and distributing them to his staff like he's handing out awards.
I stand there, awkward, bouncing Orry slightly.
One of the junior analysts, a guy in a graphic tee and blazer, grins at me. "Your shop's next door, right?"
"Yep."
"My girlfriend's been dying to check it out."
"Tell her to stop by. We're still setting up, but I've got enough stock to do a full face."
"Will do."
Colum reappears, muffin in hand. "Let me give you the tour."
"I don't need—"
"Nonsense. You're part of the plaza family now."
He loops his arm through mine—carefully, so he doesn't jostle Orry—and starts walking.
"This is the bullpen. That's where the analysts sit and crunch numbers and pretend they understand cryptocurrency."
A woman in cat-eye glasses flips him off without looking up from her screen.
Colum grins. "See? Thriving workplace culture."
I laugh despite myself.
He shows me the break room, the conference space, the corner office he's turned into a "creative think tank," which appears to be a beanbag chair and a whiteboard covered in illegible scrawl.
"And here—" He stops in front of a glass-walled office. "—is where the magic happens."
I glance inside.
It's tidy. Obsessively so. Desk organized with military precision. Shelves lined with binders color-coded by label. A small potted succulent in the corner that looks like it's been measured for optimal placement.
And sitting at the desk, glasses perched on his nose, is an orc.
He's tall. Broad-shouldered. Olive-tinted skin with a faint green undertone that catches the light.
He's also wearing a button-up shirt with a pocket protector.
I blink.
Colum knocks on the glass.
The orc looks up.
"Gunther! Come meet Cecie."
Gunther stands, and I revise my earlier assessment.
He's not just tall. He's tall. The kind of tall that makes me feel like I'm looking up at a very polite, very nerdy tree.
He steps out of the office, and I notice—
Glasses. Wire-rimmed, slightly crooked, like he's pushed them up his nose a thousand times today.
Faint ink stain on his shirt pocket.
A watch with a calculator function strapped to his wrist.
He's the opposite of Ridge.
And yet.
Something about him feels—
Stop.
I shove the thought away.
"Cecie, this is Gunther Ridgeway. My right-hand man and the reason this place runs at all."
Gunther extends a hand. "Nice to meet you."
His voice is calm. Measured. The kind of voice that probably explains tax law at parties.
I shake his hand. His grip is warm, careful, like he's worried about crushing my fingers.
"You too."
Orry squirms in the carrier, makes a tiny grunt.
Gunther glances down. His expression softens, and for a second, I see tenderness.
"This is Orry," I say.
"He's—" Gunther stops. Clears his throat. "He's very small."
I laugh. "Yeah. That's kind of their whole deal."
Colum claps Gunther on the shoulder. "Cecie owns Sparkle Beauty. The newly renovated shop next door."
"I saw the sign." Gunther looks at me, and his eyes, pale green, warm behind the glasses and lingers for half a second too long.
Something flickers behind my ribs.
Nope.
I shift Orry, adjust the carrier strap. "I should get back. Still unpacking."
"Of course." Colum grins. "But seriously. Thank you for the muffins. You're already the plaza favorite."
"I'll try not to let it go to my head."
I turn to leave.
Orry twists in the carrier, cranes his neck to look back at Gunther.
And grins.
It's his weapon, that grin. Pure sunshine concentrated into one chubby baby face. His crystal green eyes, bright, impossibly bright, catch the overhead lights and practically glow.
I feel Gunther go still behind me.
"He's—" Gunther's voice sounds strange. Tight. "His eyes."
"Yeah." I glance back. "Pretty striking, right?"
Gunther's staring. Not in a creepy way. More like someone just showed him an equation that doesn't balance.
Colum laughs. "Kid's got stage presence already. You should put him in commercials, Sis."
"He can barely sit up."
"Perfect. Authenticity sells."
Orry keeps grinning at Gunther. One dimple, right cheek, pronounced, deep enough to hide a penny, carves into his baby-fat face.
Gunther's mouth opens slightly.
Then closes.
Then he smiles back.
It's tentative. Awkward. The kind of smile someone gives when they're not sure if they're doing it right.
But the dimple—
Oh.
Right cheek. Same placement. Same depth.
My stomach does something complicated.
Coincidence. Lots of people have dimples. It doesn't mean anything.
Except Orry's skin, under the office fluorescents, shows that faint greenish tint more obviously than usual. And his eyes are practically neon compared to my boring hazel.
And Gunther's standing there, olive-green undertones in his own skin, dimple on full display, looking at my son like he's just seen a ghost.
"Well." My voice comes out too bright. "We should really—"
Orry squeals.
Not a distressed squeal. A delighted one.
He wriggles in the carrier, arms flailing, and before I can stop him, he lunges forward.
"Orry, no—"
Too late.