Page 82 of Your Place or Mine

ButIwas.

And she’d want me to live like I meant it.

I sat up slowly, every muscle sore from too much painting and far too many unprocessed feelings. The paint roller was still in the tray by the door, and the wall was officially ready for color.

But it could wait.

Because something had shifted overnight.

I was tired of hovering in this halfway state—part grieving daughter, part guilt-ridden landlord, part woman kissing men who clearly didn’t know what to do with her.

No more half-versions.

I was going to make Reckless Rivermine.

One project at a time.

I showered and pulled on my favorite hoodie. It was soft and oversized, a hand-me-down from my mom’s old college sweatshirt stash. I tossed my hair into a messy bun and grabbed my notebook from the kitchen counter. It was time for a new list. One that wasn’t just full of maintenance tasks or budgeting notes.

This one would be about making this place feel like home. I scribbled the title at the top, then started a list.

Operation: Reckless Root Down.

Talk to June about hosting a building-wide event (maybe tulip themed?)

Replace the hallway runner between tenants with something bright and not tragic

Check on bookstore lighting. Seems too dim

Bring baked goods to tenants?

Riley needs ceiling tiles…move up contractor on schedule

Organize a mural day? Public art = public love

I paused, pen tapping. Just to irk the grumpy guy. And then I added one more, in smaller letters:

Apologize to myself for making Callum Benedict matter more than he should.

I stared at it for a second, then nodded.

Okay.

I didn’t need him.

I didn’t need the way he looked at me like I’d cracked some code he didn’t want anyone to solve.

I didn’t need his brooding or sarcasm or the quiet way he said my name like he wanted to memorize its shape in his mouth.

Nope.

I slapped the notebook closed and marched out of my apartment with fresh purpose in my step and a mental game plan already forming.

First stop! The shared garden patio behind the building.

It had potential. So much potential.

The little paved space out back was wedged between the bar’s rear door and the first-floor units for the coffee shop and bakery. It also happened to be overgrown and underutilized. A few cracked planters. One broken bench. And a half-hearted string of lights someone had hung and never replaced when they burned out.

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