Page 9 of Fixing Up My Love Life

Maybe she didn’t see it. Maybe she deleted the app. Or maybe—and this one lands the hardest—maybe she saw it and decided I wasn’t worth the trouble.

Can’t say I blame her. I messed things up between us once. Badly. And now it plays in my head on repeat, like a song I don’t want to remember but can’t forget.

The bell above the hardware store door jingles, but I don’t look up.

I’m sorting a shipment of socket wrenches and pretending they require all my focus. My hands are busy and my brain is another story.

Then I hear her voice.

“Hey, Mr. Sanders.”

I freeze. That voice stops me cold.

I turn so fast I nearly drop the wrench I’m holding. And there she is.

Hazel.

The same Hazel who ghosted me after we matched. The same Hazel I’ve been trying not to think about every night since. And now she’s standing just inside the doorway, looking like she walked out of a memory I didn’t realize I’d been clinging to.

“Well, hello there, Hazel,” Dad says, his voice warming like the sun coming through a window. “What can I do for you?”

Of course he’s happy to see her. He’s always liked her.Morethan liked her. My parents used to talk about Hazel like she was already part of the family. Like I’d somehow ruined a perfectly good thing.

She smiles at him, her shoulders relaxing. “I’m trying to fix up the old HensleyHouse. I called around, but everyone’s booked months out. I’m on a tight deadline and hoped you might know someone.”

Please don’t say it, Dad. Just this once, let the moment pass.

“Well, my son Jackson is a fine contractor,” he says. “He’s right here, in fact.”

And there it is.

Hazel looks around and sees me for the first time. She stops in her tracks.

Hazel in person is exactly how I remembered her. Maybe more. Confident. Focused. Still beautiful in that effortless way that sneaks up on you. Her hair is swept up, and she has a clipboard tucked under one arm. She’s not here to reminisce.

I straighten, suddenly aware of how ridiculous I must look surrounded by open boxes and scattered tools.

“Hi,” I manage, my voice a little rough.

“Hi,” she replies, guarded but not cold.

Dad glances between us like he’s narrating a movie. “You don’t mind working with him, do you? I know there’s a bit of history.”

A wrench slips from my hand and lands squarely on my foot. Pain shoots through my toe, sharp and immediate. I suck in a breath and force myself to not react.

Hazel winces. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I grit out, trying not to limp as I shift my weight. To add to the spectacle, I lean against the shelf beside me and knock a display of paintbrushes to the ground. They scatter like dry leaves.

“I’ll take care of that,” I mutter, crouching to clean up the mess. But before I can gather more than a few brushes, Hazel bends down beside me.

“Let me help,” she says softly.

Our hands reach for the same brush, and our fingers touch.

It’s barely a moment, but the air shifts. Her hand lingers near mine, and for one heartbeat, everything else—the tools, the awkwardness, the silence—fades to the background.

She looks up, and our gazes meet. Pain flickers in her eyes, unspoken but obvious.

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