Fangs, Fate & Other Bad Decisions novel Chapter 52

Chapter 52

It’s Wednesday morning, and I’ve overslept.

Not by ten minutes, and not by a polite half–hour. No, I overslept by ninety full, unapologetic, universe–flipping minutes.

My alarm blares incessantly like it’s trying to resuscitate a corpse, so I slap it off with all the rage of a woman scorned, and then I just…lie there. Staring at the ceiling like it holds the answers to life, love, and why the fuck Thane Draeven keeps hijacking my dreams like some brooding fever ghost.

Eventually, I roll out of bed, but I make no effort to fix the chaos that’s Harley Blake. I don’t throw on makeup, I don’t bother with breakfast, and I don’t even try to make up for time lost. Because honestly? What’s the point?

I pull on a shirt that probably belonged to an old ex of mine at some point, leggings that may or may not be inside out, and a hoodie that reads “Emotionally Unavailable, Please Wait“.

And then I open my front door…to a fucking flat tire.

I stare at it for a full minute, sipping the leftover cold coffee I brewed yesterday. Then I calmly walk back inside, toss my car keys into the bow! beside the door, and march to the bus stop like the stubborn, sleep–deprived bookstore goblin I am.

By the time I stumble into the store thirty minutes later, Gemma is already behind the counter, doling out side–eyes and sass like it’s her day job.

“You look like you lost a fight with a raccoon in a thrift store dumpster,” she says without even glancing up.

“That raccoon would’ve tapped out,” I mutter, throwing my bag under the counter without any finesse.

Gemma takes one look at me and sets down the box of various–sized envelopes she was restocking. “You look like you need either a shot of espresso or a priest. Possibly both.”

“I need everyone to stop breathing near me and for my tire to un–flatten itself through sheer force of will,” grumble.

She hands me a cup of coffee that I didn’t ask for and definitely don’t deserve. It’s hot, extra strong, and for once, she doesn’t press me on what fuckery is happening in my life right now.

But then…

“So I got into a

a Facebook war last night,” she announces, like she’s reporting the weather.

I groan, already sensing the inevitable migraine, ‘Gemma.”

“No, no, you’re going to love this. This absolute heathen of a woman from the Romance Readers of Rosewood group tried to claim that Love in the Vineyard was a better enemies–to–lovers book than ‘Whiskey & Warnings“. Can you believe the audacity?” she says, sounding genuinely offended.

1 blink, then ask, “Gemma, you threatened to ban her from the store for having incorrect opinions again, didn’t you?”

“No!” she says, too quickly, effectively snitching on herself, “I told her she could come in and see our display of superior taste–possibly while being escorted by security.”

I rub at my temples and gripe, “So help me, if this starts another comment thread with 300 gifs and a librarian turf war, I’m faking my own death.”

Gemma smirks, then adds, “Too late. I heady photoshopped your obituary for dramatic effect.”

I’ve spilled coffee on a customer’s tote bag, mispriced an entire batch of bookmarks, and tried to restock a display that didn’t need restocking. I also walked into the endcap shelf–twice–and am now sporting a lovely bruise on my upper thigh.

And everything smells like vanilla candles and failure around me.

Also, I’m not thinking about him. Not about his eyes or how he looked at me like I was a secret worth keeping. And most definitely not about how his hands felt or how his voice sounded after midnight on Sunday, right before he kissed me senseless.

My phone buzzes–an email. Not a message from him. Because, of course, it isn’t.

I open my messages anyway. There’s still no mobile number saved under “Thane: Doom Daddy“, because I still haven’t worked up the guts to call his office to ask to speak to the CEO like a woman who hasn’t completely lost her mind.

1 lock the screen and shove my phone in the drawer, and it squeaks when it closes, like even the furniture dares to judge me.

“Unless it’s holding coffee and a sedative, it can fuck right off,” 1 mutter.

The rest of the day goes downhill in small, stupid ways: A new shipment of books is missing an entire box of about 50 books, a teenager tries to įreturn a smutty romance claiming his mom thought it was a devotional“, and a regular comes in and innocently asks, “Rough week, Harley? You look like feelings have hit you.”

I very nearly staple my own forehead each time.

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