Page 60 of A Pizza My Heart

“Chop-chop.” She laughs at her own joke. “I don’t have all day.”

I push myself up off the couch then follow her through the kitchen and outside to the shed that sits just left of the blue abode.

The walkway leading up to the bright orange door is a mix of mosaic and cement. Some spots are cracked and aged, but it’s beautiful nonetheless.

“Cool, huh? Mr. Carlton’s late wife did it. I couldn’t imagine digging it up.”

“It’s funky. I like it.”

She pushes open the orange-trimmed glass door and we step inside.

I’ll be honest, when Wren said she converted a shed into a salon, I was thinking boring walls, cement floors, old barn sink, and a chair, something workable yet sparse.

Knowing her, I should have known better.

The walls are cement gray, the floors covered in dark gray wood, and modern lights hang from the exposed ceiling. There’s a small waiting area with a loveseat, chair, and orange rug that matches the door nearly perfectly.

It looks like an upscale salon, one I’d drop my mother off at for an afternoon of pampering.

Bright and open and wholly Wren.

Pride swells inside me.

“Welcome to You Do You.”

I laugh. “Clever.”

“I know I am.”

Impressed, I shoot her a grin. “You did it, Birdie.”

“I did.”

“How’s it feel?”

“Good. Scary.”

“Scary?”

She nods, looking around the place, face full of love and trepidation. “Not only because all it would take is one off day and a bad review to crumble this place, but because Mr. Carlton could yank my space at any moment.”

“I thought you were buying it.”

“Iwantto buy it—badly, so much my heart aches for it. It was our intention at first, but then he got sick and his kids convinced him not to sell it yet. I’ve been on a month-to-month contract for the last six months. My nerves are shot from the constant worry about the possibility of losing my dream homeandmy dream job. I haven’t eaten properly or slept right in so long. It’s been hard. Winston doesn’t care. My dad doesn’t know. Drew wants to help but is hanging on to her own life by the tips of her fingers too. It’s a fustercluck.”

I want so fucking badly to reach out to her, want to gather her into my arms and keep her safe like I’ve done so many times before.

But I don’t.

Too afraid.

Again.

“Whatever.” She sighs. “Enough sappy crap. I need to hustle.” She points toward an empty chair. “Grab a seat at station one. I’ll get a cape for you while you settle in.”

I plop my ass down at the first station and my eyes follow her ass as she shuffles away, loving the way she sways her hips with confidence she’s never lacked, not even when she was a pimple-faced thirteen-year-old.

Wren’s morning appointment clears her throat from the chair beside me, dragging my attention away from the heavenly scene in front of me.

---