Chapter 3
Chapter three
Annabelle
“No, Shari, I’m not emotionally ready to leave my apartment. I barely survived brushing my hair,” I say, pacing my bedroom while my best friend appears on FaceTime, lounging on her couch with a face mask the color of mint toothpaste.
“That bad?” she asks.
“Worse,” I say. “If one more person asks if I’m ‘healing,’ I am going to go feral and start throwing scented candles.”
She snorts. “Okay, so you’re clearly thriving.”
I stop in front of my full-length mirror and glare at my reflection. Same brown eyes. Same dark hair. Same face that was splashed all over my ex’s fan accounts three weeks ago with the caption I hope she’s okay like I am a lost puppy and not a human woman with a LinkedIn profile.
“Thriving is a strong word,” I say. “I’d say I’m… vertical. Barely.”
“Belle,” Shari says gently, “it’s only been three weeks since the world’s most generic cowboy crooner cheated on you at soundcheck. You don’t have to be okay yet.”
“I am okay.”
“You cried because a stranger in the grocery store had your ex’s haircut.”
“It was a traumatic fade.”
“And you tried to return his sweatshirt to the store because you couldn’t stand looking at it.”
“It had evil energy,” I insist.
She gives me the look. The one that says she can see the little emotional dumpster fire still smoldering in me.
I flop onto my bed, the mattress squeaking in protest. Boxes are still stacked along the wall, half-unpacked. My tiny Nashville apartment smells faintly like cardboard, laundry detergent, and the vanilla candle I keep burning so it does not smell like my feelings.
“I just…” I stare at the ceiling. There is a faint water stain shaped like Texas above my light fixture. Of course. “I don’t want to be The Woman Who Gets Cheated On. Again.”
“You’re not,” she says immediately. “You’re Annabelle Hacker. Brilliant. Gorgeous. Loyal. Organized. And you swear like a sailor when you’re angry.”
“I do not.”
“You called him a ‘banjo-wielding barnacle parasite.’”
“Okay, that one was deserved.”
“And you emailed his manager a color-coded bullet-point list of all the ways he emotionally underperforms as a partner.”
I roll to my side and squint at the camera. “That was constructive feedback.”
“Sure it was,” she says. “Look, the point is, he is a walking cliché with a guitar, and you are a whole functioning person. You left. You came home. You got a job. That’s not a sad girl move. That’s a main character move.”
The words slip under my skin and sit there, warm and uncomfortable.
“Speaking of the job,” she says, brightening, “how was day one at the Outlaws front office? Is your dad making you organize pucks again?”
I groan and throw an arm over my eyes. “You want the work update?”
“Yes. Tell Auntie Shari about your new high-powered executive life.”
I peek at the phone. “I have been assigned a demon.”
“Oh no. What?”
“More like who… Bryce Blackhorn.”
Her eyes go huge. “THE Bryce Blackhorn? The one who tried to fight a mechanical bull?”
“He did fight it. And lost.”
“The one who got caught dancing shirtless on Broadway with the mayor’s niece?”
“Allegedly. But yes.”
She props herself up on her elbow, face mask crinkling. “And you met him today?”
“I… encountered him.”
She smirks. “Was it sexy?”
“It was sweaty.”
“Same thing.”
“No,” I insist, sitting up again. “It was muscular. And smug. And distracting. He skated over, ripped his jersey off, and my frontal lobe packed its bags and left the country.”
“So, you want to climb him.”
“I WANT TO FILE A COMPLAINT.”
She cackles. I glare at her and reach for a hair tie, gathering my hair on top of my head just so I have something to do with my hands.
“You should have seen him,” I say. “He smirked.”
Shari gasps theatrically. “Not the smirk.”
“And he winked.”
“Oh my God.” She fans herself with one hand. “You are doomed.”
“I am not. I am immune. I have been vaccinated against men like him. I got the whole series. Booster and everything.”
She softens, the humor slipping just enough to show the friend underneath. “Belle… you sound alive again. Ranting. Pacing. Roasting him. That’s my girl.”
Something twinges in my chest. She’s right. I have been moving in slow motion for weeks. Today, I yelled at my steering wheel, argued with my dad, and verbally sparred with a six-foot-three winger who thinks rules are suggestions.
It felt… like something.
“Just because he is hot does not mean I am interested,” I say.
“Of course not,” she says sweetly. “And I only drink water on weekends.”
I give her the finger. She blows me a kiss.
I swing my legs off the bed, toes hitting the soft rug I bought yesterday in a burst of optimism.
My apartment is small but cute: exposed brick wall, tiny balcony that overlooks a parking lot and one sad tree, and a kitchen with enough counter space for approximately three grapes. It’s not glamorous, but it’s mine.
And it’s mercifully free of cheating musicians.
“Help me pick something professional for the charity event tonight,” I say, walking to my open closet. “It is my first official outing. I need to look like I know what I am doing and also like I didn’t cry in my car recently.”
Shari perks up. “Ooh. Fashion show.”
I hold up a navy sheath dress.
She immediately wrinkles her nose. “No sad clothes. That one screams ‘my boyfriend dumped me via Google Calendar.’”
I swap it for a soft floral wrap dress.
“Too romantic,” she says. “You are not trying to fall in love. You are trying to assert dominance.”
Finally, I pull out the black fitted dress I bought on clearance and never wore. Structured shoulders. Clean lines. Hits mid-thigh but not offensively so.
Shari squeals. “Yes. That one says ‘I am in charge’ and also ‘cry in the shower thinking about me.’”
“I do not want Bryce thinking about me.”
She raises a brow. “Sure, and I’m the Queen of Nashville.”
I step into the dress and zip it up, twisting in the mirror. It hugs my waist, skims my hips, makes my legs look like I have been working out instead of stress-eating pretzels over the sink.
I add a pair of simple black heels, then dig through my jewelry box until I find small gold hoops and the delicate necklace my mom gave me when I graduated college.
Shari watches, quieter now. “You look like yourself again,” she says.
I swallow around the unexpected lump in my throat.
“Do I?”
“Yeah. You look like the girl who used to sprint from the student section to the executive box to argue with your dad about stats.”
I smile a little at the memory. “He still hates when I am right.”
“Which is always,” she says.
I move to the bathroom and lean close to the mirror, adding eyeliner and mascara. My hand trembles only a little. I swipe on lipstick, blot it, then stare at myself.
I look… steady.
“Okay,” I say, stepping back into the bedroom. “Game plan. I am going to this event. I am going to be professional. I am not going to get flustered by Bryce or his stupid jawline. I am going to prove to my dad and the entire front office that I belong here.”
“Atta girl,” Shari says. “Channel your inner ice queen. No feelings. Only spreadsheets.”
“Exactly.”
“And text me updates,” she adds. “Preferably ones involving his abs.”
“I am hanging up now.”
She laughs and waves. “Have fun storming the castle, babe. And remember, if he’s mean, picture him trying to put a fitted sheet on a bed. Nobody looks cool doing that.”
I end the call and the apartment falls quiet again.
The silence is not as heavy as I thought it would be.
I set my phone on the dresser and glance around. Half-finished unpacking projects stare back at me, but for the first time, I don’t feel like I am living in a temporary holding cell. I open the sliding door to the tiny balcony and step outside for a second.
The Nashville evening is cool and hazy, the sky streaked with orange and pink. I can hear faint music from some distant bar, a guitar riff drifting on the breeze like the city is daring me to forgive it.
“Not yet,” I tell it under my breath.
I go back inside, grab my small black clutch, lip gloss, and the folded PR plan I drafted this afternoon. There are bullet points. There is a timeline. There are contingency strategies for when Bryce inevitably ignores my instructions.
I stare at his name on the top of the page.
Bryce Blackhorn.
Winger. Headache. Human grenade with a great body.
He is the exact opposite of what I need.
Which means the universe has obviously made him my job.
My phone buzzes on the dresser.
A text from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Try not to be late, Princess. Cameras like me more than they like you.
I stare at it for three full seconds.
Then I type back before I can stop myself.
ME: If you get yourself fined before dessert is served, I am sending you the invoice.
The reply is instant.
brYCE: Knew you were fun.
My pulse jumps.
Not because I like him.
Because he is infuriating.
Absolutely, spectacularly infuriating.
I slip my phone into my clutch, grab my keys, and open my front door.
The hallway smells faintly like someone burned popcorn. The overhead lights buzz softly. Somewhere down the hall, a TV laughs.
I step out and pull the door closed behind me until the lock clicks.
“Perfect,” I mutter. “My night hasn’t even started and I already want to strangle him with my lanyard.”
I square my shoulders, lift my chin, and head toward the stairs.
Ready or not… it’s showtime.