Chapter 13 The Day I Loved Sweat
THE DAY I LOVED SWEAT
MABEL
Divide and conquer.
That’s the plan. As Corbin tackles the garage door ordering—fine by me, since he has lots of opinions on that—I tackle paint picking.
I enlist my interior designer friend, Skylar, to help me out, along with Remy, my glass-all-full friend, who’s surprisingly opinionated when it comes to paint chips.
She works for the hockey team, handling community relations, but not full-time, so she’s been able to join us in checking out furniture and baking equipment.
And right now, we’re at the paint shop she likes in the Dogpatch District in the city, and Remy holds up a sample the color of Pepto-Bismol, mincing no words. “This makes me want to hurl.”
“Next,” I agree, and grab a soft mauve shade.
“Nope.” Skylar shakes her head, her red hair swishing. “That color can’t decide where it wants to go for dinner.”
I tuck it back into its paint-chip home, then grab another. “This?”
“It looks like bubble gum,” Remy says, as if that disappoints her.
“It’s called Bubble Gum,” I point out, reading the name on the card.
She taps her chin. “I don’t like bubble gum.”
“You are so picky,” I say.
“Which is exactly how I found Jameson,” Remy says proudly, adjusting the messy bun that holds her lush, chestnut hair. “By being picky.”
“I thought you found him because he works at the arena too?” I have to give her a hard time, of course.
“Among other factors. And I was picky when he said he’d seen me several times walking past his craft cocktail bar and did I want to finally go out with him,” she says.
“You should be picky when it comes to craft cocktails and dating,” Skylar says, “and also to the colors you’re going to paint your new business.
” She leans closer to the shelf and studies the paint chips, then hums in concern.
“Actually, these are all a nope.” I don’t have time to ask why before she whips out her phone and quickly looks something up.
“The brand’s not cruelty-free. I just checked. ”
“Oh, thank you,” I say, genuinely grateful she thought of that. She’s an eco-friendly designer and tries to source secondhand, recycled, and ethically made items. “I hadn’t thought of that with paint. But I’m glad you did.”
“Happy to help.” She peruses the information on her phone, then nods.
“Let’s try this brand.” She points to a nearby sign, and we head that way, debating paint colors for another thirty minutes before we settle on a handful of finalists.
Even though I’m ready to move full speed ahead with my favorite, I have to slow down.
I’m not the only one making the decisions.
It’s a weird feeling for someone who’s used to being utterly independent.
“I should show these to Corbin,” I say, adjusting to my new reality of having a partner. “Along with pics of the furniture and stuff. I don’t want him to feel like I’ve been making all the decisions.”
“By all means,” Remy says, and I fire off a text.
Mabel: I have fun things to show you! I can text you gobs of photos, or we can try to find time to meet? I’m in the city.
Corbin: Same here. Just arrived early at the arena. Charlotte’s doing homework, and I have a game tonight.
Mabel: So, later, then?
Corbin: Come by now. I’m just working out.
Oh. That means I’ll be talking to him while he’s…lifting weights. I’m both thrilled and worried.
But mostly thrilled since having a hot business partner has its perks.
I hop off the bus near the arena. As I walk, I rummage in my bag for a handful of the postcards I keep with me. I pull them out whenever I wish I could talk to my grandmother, which lately feels like all the time.
And it definitely feels like now. Maybe because I’m a little nervous heading to see Corbin while he’s at work? No, excited is more like it.
I flip through the eclectic half-dozen cards, including one she sent when I was in college.
The illustration of New York City on the front is in a playful and exaggerated style, and on the back, Grandma had written: “Did I ever tell you about the year I lived in New York City? It was harrowing and wonderful. Everyone—but especially a young woman with big dreams—should live in a city at some point. You’ll learn so much about yourself and about the world. ”
The next week, I’d written back to her on a postcard I found with an image of Paris at night: “So you’re going to send me to Paris for a year to eat crepes and drink espresso by the Seine? Thanks, Grandma!”
The next week, she sent me a vintage postcard of San Francisco. “Or the city just over the bridge. I hear it’s nice there too.”
And it was closer. That was always one of my favorite things about living in San Francisco. It was close to her.
I frown as I tuck the cards back into my bag.
Grandma and I talked a lot about how much I loved living in the city.
But I wish I could talk to her about what I’m doing with the firehouse she left me, or tell her about the guy I kissed impetuously and then even more impulsively opened a shop with.
I want to ask her if this is what she wanted for her independent, wild child of a grandkid.
But mostly I want to ask what she’d think about mixing business with pleasure.
Those questions will have to remain unanswered.
I walk past the fox statue outside the arena, heading to one of the main doors.
I’ve been here plenty of times. Having a big brother who was obsessed with sports law, sports management, and sports deals meant I was in and out of rinks and stadiums a lot growing up.
Worked for me, because while Theo shouted at refs and umpires, I watched videos about food styling, detailing how to present food in the most visually appealing way and how to take photos of it too.
I taught myself all about the color wheel and complementary hues, and what looks good together.
The arena, though, is the opposite of my cozy, pretty, sugary world. It’s the opposite of the paint chips too. It’s all dark purples and soft whites. It’s mammoth ceilings and massive banners of men holding sticks and looking mean.
They’re supposed to intimidate opponents and rally the fans.
When I open the door and stop at the security turnstile, I’m greeted by a thirty-foot-tall Corbin.
There he is, hanging from the top of the arena, scowling, his helmet on, his gaze fixed on the puck as he flies down the ice with it.
A captured moment in time—the hockey player dead-set on scoring.
His jaw tight. His eyes dark. His attitude ferocious.
It’s a little scary.
It’s even scarier how turned on I am.
I tear my gaze from the banner and focus on the security guard, who’s asking, “What can I do for you?”
“I’m Mabel Llewelyn. I’m here to see Corbin Knight.” I wonder if I sound like a groupie, and I’m tempted to add, I’m his new business partner. But that sounds even more like an excuse made up to creep on him.
The man with the mustache scans his tablet, and a little frisson of excitement runs through me at the idea that I’m on some list. I feel a little like a star. Like a VIP.
Then my fantasies come crashing down when he says, “Nope, you’re not on here.”
“I’ll just give him a quick call,” I say, grabbing my phone. I ignore the sound of approaching footsteps on the polished floor until I hear my brother’s voice.
“She’s with me.”
I turn, and of course, it’s Theo right here, with his polished wingtips gleaming and a smile that says whatever he says goes.
The security guard nods deferentially. “Of course, Mr. Llewelyn,” he says, then scans my bag and lets me through the turnstile.
I thank him, then look at my brother with a furrowed brow. “How did you know I was going to be here?”
His eyes darken. “Don’t you know, Mabel? I know everything.”
His tone is ominous, with zero mirth. For a few terrifying seconds, I believe this is his way of telling me he knows that I’m fantasizing about Corbin coming up behind me as I mix batter, wrapping his arms around me, then kissing the sugar off my neck and stripping me to nothing but an apron.
Holy shit, my fantasies are getting weirdly specific.
I perform an immediate mind-wipe. “If you know everything, then what’s the temperature for baking an upside-down pineapple cake?” I want to trip him up and maybe get sex off my brain too.
But Theo laughs and says, “Actually, Corbin sent me up. I was walking past the weight room, and he told me he was going to meet you here. I said I’d get you since I don’t want him to break his workout routine.
But now that I’ve got you, how’s everything going?
Do I need to fuck him up for any reason? ”
“Have you always been pugilistic?” I ask as we head down the escalator to the food concourse, where workers prep snacks for tonight’s game.
He stops at a plant wall and gives me a serious look. “Yes.”
I roll my eyes and motion for him to resume walking. “You don’t need to fuck him up for any reason.”
“Noted. But the offer stands. Also, I put in a call to the lawyers at Romance Beach and made it clear they shouldn’t talk about you again.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes,” he says, pulling no punches. “Look, your ex is a prick. What the hell is his problem—talking shit about you on TV?”
“I’ve mostly tried to ignore it,” I say, though it’s not always easy to put my head in the sand about the fallout—losing a shot at a loan. Plus, I’m a meme.
“Good,” he says. “You should. But that’s why you’ve got me—so I can handle this for you, and they’ll know better.”
“What did they say? The lawyers?”
“They said…Heard.”
I stand up straighter. “Oh. Really?” That’s code for understood.
“Yep.” He drapes an arm around me and pulls me in for a brotherly hug.
“And next time, when you decide to date again, let me meet the guy first. Vet him. Make sure he’s not an asshat.
Or better yet, how about you take a timeout from dating and focus on this bakery, and let’s launch the fuck out of it? ”