Page 113 of Mortgage of Convenience

Bee stops short in the entryway. The light catches her beautifully, a stark contrast to me right now, slumped on the floor, hands and jeans black with dirt.

“Everything all right?”

“Honestly?”

She nods.

My head knocks against the cupboard. “No.”

Bee sinks down beside me, our knees touching. It’s better and worse. I reach for her hand anyway. There won’t ever be a time where I won’t want to strap myself to her comet. She’s a vision when she’s chasing her dreams.

I just don’t know how long I can keep chasing her.

“You’re not him, you know.”

On that, we’ll have to disagree.

Because there’s so much of my father to emulate—oh, the possibilities—there’s no way to eliminate them all.

It’s the overwhelming need to be a good man, a good father, but the fear that I’m doomed to repeat history. That I’ve spent so long running away from the inevitable that I’ve wasted my chance at the very future I want.

Bee squeezes my hand. “I don’t think you see yourself clearly, and I can say that as someone with extensive experience in that field. You’re passionate, not aggressive. Authoritative,” she adds with a coy smile. “Thoughtful, caring, worryingly nerdy about your plants…” She trails off. I can hear the concern, but I don’t have it in me to alleviate it for her.

“The Sebastian I know isn’t afraid of anything.”

“You’d be surprised what scares me, angel.”

The sink drips—I need to fix that—and we sit in silence as I count the seconds between beats.

Eight Mississippis later, Bee stands.

“Okay, up.”

“Is that an order?”

“Yes. I’m going to prove to you that you don’t have anything to worry about.”

This should be good.

“Okay.” I follow her beckoning fingers until I’m on my feet, towering over her. “Just one thing first.”

And as her lips part around the inevitable question, I kiss her.

Hopefully not for the last time.

Smash House is not where I’m expecting Bee to take me. It’s tucked inside a nondescript office building on the second floor. We take the stairs and find ourselves walking into chaos.

Fitting.

As soon as we pass through the soundproofing, my ears are assaulted with thrash metal and the distinct sounds of what we came here for.

“Wow, this brings back memories.”

Ed, the artist who inked most of my arms, loved blasting Rammstein live as he worked. Just hours and hours and hours of it. I didn’t understand a single word, but watching Ed lip sync to his favorite parts turned out to be a pretty good distraction from the pain.

I’m not sure it’ll work today.

We’re told there are two spots in the next slot and given an almost worrying amount of paperwork to sign—PPE is crucial, we are not liable if you act up and hurt yourself, blah, blah, blah—and then we’re suited up in our gloves and goggles and overalls and led to a room.

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