Page 49 of South of The Skyway

Fucking temptress.

I plugged the Bluetooth headphones in and hit play on my watch. “Shrike” by Hozier set a peppy pace, and I dropped the tailgate to unload. Trip after trip, I hauled in treasures. Crates of reclaimed wood. A chandelier I could restore for the back hallway. Old frames for the mirrors if I painted them first. A coat rack that would double as vintage decor. It took a good lift and focused breathing to haul in the cast iron sinks on my own, but I did the damn thing, panting as I turned back to the truck for the last load—an old cruiser bike we could put up on the plant shelves.

Hands aching and arms a little shaky from too much exertion and not enough calories, I stepped outside to catch my breath, only for it to halt when I spotted the now-dark storefront across from me. Whipping my head to the side, I spotted a black jeep as it rolled through the intersection, the light just turning green.

My palms seemed to buzz.

“Rhyett?” A smooth, feminine voice pulled my attention back as Noel waved me down. I crossed the empty street, pulling her in for a hug. She bounced back with a smile, shaking her head as she happily demanded, “What in the hell are you doing here?” Her eyes flicked from mine to the lit, soon-to-be bar behind me. Those freckled cheeks fell. “Oh, man. Don’t tell me.”

“What?” I asked, confused by the reaction.

“You’rethe new tenant?”

“Oh yeah—that dumpster fire will be my bar by the end of the year.”

“Don’t tell Brexley,” she said on a nervous-sounding giggle.

“What?” I balked again. “Why not?”

“She had her heart set on that building for years. When the for-rent sign went up, she sent them emails daily for months.”

“Oh man,” I said with a grimace. “I had no idea.”

“How could you?”

“Man, I just—that’s what I was doing, the day I came into the shop.”

“Signing the lease?”

“Yeah, I just…had a good feeling about Clem.”

“Clem?”

“Landlord,” I supplied, running a palm over my hair. Noel offered me what was clearly meant to be a reassuring smile.

“Don’t worry about it, Rhyett. Wasn’t meant to be. We didn’t have the renovation budget, anyway.”

“It’s not going to win me any brownie points, though, is it?”

Noel looked like she was wrestling a smile into submission. “You still hoping to win brownie points, Hotshot?”

“Obviously,” I admitted. “You know Brex.”

“Yeah,” she said, glancing down to her hand as her phone lit up. Her brow furrowed, jaw tightening. A picture of her with a brunette guy in a suit popped up. “I should take this.”

I raised my hand in farewell. “Goodnight, Noel. Will you let Brex know we’re neighbors?”

She chuckled, shaking her head with unearned fondness in her eyes. “Chicken shit.”

“I plead the fifth,” I said, retreating across the road. I turned off the lights, locked the shop up, and headed on home, thinking of Brexley.

TWENTY-ONE

BREXLEY

Four miles beneath my tennis shoes, four shots of espresso, and four new inquiries for author signings into my morning, I finally packed up Royal’s belongings, and we headed out the door. Mornings were my favorite. Not just because I could be productive, but because the city was mostly silent. Still anticipating the tumult of the day but not yet descended into the melee of urban hustle culture. For a moment, I could pretend I was anywhere else. A quiet small town like my romcom authors wrote about. Not the enormous petri dish where we all piled on top of each other like sardines in a can.

Blocks between my townhouse and shop were always eager to dissolve that optimism. Littered with trash and lined with poverty, the streets quickly reminded me of how harsh the world could be. Of why I had to fight like hell to make something of myself.

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