Page 32 of Cold as Stone
We fall back into silence, but it’s lighter now, the tension easing with each stroke of our brushes. I find myself watching her when she’s not looking, noticing the way she bites her lip in concentration, the curve of her neck as she reaches up, the stray wisps of hair curling against her skin.
Dangerous territory, Armstrong.
I clear my throat. “So what’s the plan for this place? Besides turning it green?”
She glances around the hallway. “Fresh paint, some new fixtures, maybe update the bathrooms eventually. Nothing too fancy, I want to keep the soul of it intact. Just… freshen it up a bit.”
“Suits it. How did you know the color to choose?” I ask, nodding toward the brush in her hand. Her painting style is all instinct—no tape, no measuring, just bold strokes and confidence. It’s kind of hot.
“Gut instinct, mostly. I don’t really overthink it. Just stand in the room until it tells me what it wants.”
I raise an eyebrow. “The room talks to you?”
She grins at me. “In its own way. Every space has a mood, you know? Energy. History. My job is to coax that out and give it something to work with.”
“Your job?” I echo. “This isn’t just a hobby?”
“Nope,” she says, stepping down from the ladder and stretching her back, revealing a stripe of skin between the hem of her tank and the dip in the side of the waistband of her overalls. “I flip houses.”
That pulls me up short. “Seriously?”
“Seriously. Started a few years back in Portland. Saved every penny I had, worked three jobs at once—barista in the morning, waitress at night, part-time admin in between. Took me years to get a deposit together.”
I let out a low whistle. “That’s… damn impressive.”
She shrugs, like it’s no big deal, but I can tell she’s proud. She should be. “It was hard. But once I bought my first place andflipped it, I got hooked. There’s something about taking this broken thing that others have discarded and turning it into a beautiful home again.”
“Is that why you bought Devil’s?”
She tilts her head, considering. “Maybe. I think I saw something worth saving. Something that still had good bones. Plus… it was my mom’s favorite place. For better or worse.”
She pauses, a strange look crossing her face. “Actually, I think this is my way of feeling close to her,” she says slowly, more to herself than to me. “When she was alive, I couldn’t fix her. But working here, it feels good to be in the place she loved, even if that love was a toxic one.” She shakes her head. “That’s silly, right? That I should invest in the place an alcoholic loved best?”
Her words hit me right in the chest.
“I think you should do whatever you need to grieve and move forward. If that’s burning this place to the ground or adding some paint to a wall, then do it.”
She nods, tears shimmering on her lashes. “I loved her. But I hated what she became. What she did to me, to herself. And now she’s gone and it’s… confusing. It’s grief, but it’s also relief. And that feels like betrayal, even if I know it isn’t.”
I don’t say anything. Just walk over and pull her gently into my arms. She comes willingly, folding into me like she’s been waiting to be held together.
“It’s not betrayal,” I say against her hair. “It’s the truth. And anyone who’s ever loved an addict knows exactly what you mean. You can mourn the mother you had and the mother you needed. Both are real. Both deserve space.”
She clings tighter for a beat before stepping back and wiping her eyes with the heel of her hand. “Sorry. That got heavy.”
I pick up my brush, swiping it as I try to lighten the mood. “You want to know what I do?”
Her eyes flick toward me. “You mean you’re not paid to brood in corners and be intimidating to shady businessmen?”
“Nope. Try again.”
She taps a finger against her chin as if deep in thought. “Clown.”
“I do look great in a red nose. But no.”
“Lion tamer?”
“Feels like that sometimes with the prospects. Try again.”
