“You should jump Noah Harrison.”
I snorted. “Yeah, okay.” My temperature rose just thinking about— Stop it.
“I’m serious! Fly to New York for the weekend, hash out the book details, and get laid.” She smiled when Peggy Richardson dropped her jaw, clearly having heard us as she walked by. “It’s basically multitasking. Nice to see you, Peggy!” Hazel even waved.
Peggy adjusted the strap of her purse and continued down the street.
“You’re unbelievable.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh, come on. If you won’t do it for you, do it for me. Did you see that shot of him at the beach I sent you yesterday? You can do laundry on that man’s stomach.” She hooked her arm through my elbow, and we started back down the street at a thoroughly indulgent, slow pace.
“I’ve seen all three dozen of the pictures you’ve sent me.” The man had abs for days, and the skin that stretched across the muscles of his torso and back was deliciously inked, too. According to the article she’d sent, he had one for every book he’d written.
“And you still don’t want to jump him? Because if not, I’m totally adding him to my hall-pass list. I’ll even bump Scott Eastwood for that man.”
“I never said I didn’t want to—” I grimaced, slamming my eyes shut. “Look, even if Noah wanted to, I’ve never been a fling kind of girl, and I’m not going to rebound with the guy finishing Gran’s book. Period.”
Her eyes sparkled. “But you want to. And of course he would—you’re hot. You’re divorced, and don’t forget I’m well aware that Damian wasn’t doing it for you.”
“Hazel!” I hissed, my eyes darting over my shoulder, but no one was there.
“It’s true, and I’m just looking out for you here. I know you have a thing for the broody, creative types. Did you see those tattoos? Classic bad-boy vibe, and how many bad-boy authors do you know?”
“There are plenty of bad-boy authors in the world.”
“Like whom?”
I blinked. “Uh. Hemingway?” Bad choice.
“He’s dead. Fitzgerald, too. Shame.” She rolled her eyes.
“I’ll get a pedicure right now if you drop it.”
“Fine.” She grinned. “For now, but I still think you should jump him.”
I shook my head at her ridiculously bad idea and saw Dan Allen through the glass windows of Mr. Navarro’s shop. “Is Dan still a real estate agent?” He must have it listed.
“Yep. He helped us find our house last year,” Hazel answered, then waved as Dan caught us staring.
“Do you mind if we take a few minutes before pedis?” I looked again at the bay display windows that flanked the door, imagining how the light would hit them in a few hours with the afternoon sun.
“No problem.”
I opened the heavy glass door and stepped into the shop. There were no more giant aquariums or bales of hamster bedding. Even the shelves were gone. The space was empty except for Dan, who greeted us with a charismatic smile that hadn’t changed since high school.
“Georgia, it’s been forever! Sophie mentioned she saw you when you got into town.” He stepped forward and shook my hand, then did the same with Hazel.
“Hey, Dan,” I looked around his lanky frame to the space at the back of the store. “Sorry to bust in. I was just curious about the shop.”
“Oh, are you in the market for some commercial space?” he asked.
“Just…curious.” Was I in the market? Was it even practical?
“She’s curious.” Hazel grinned.
He launched into real estate mode, telling us all about the ample square footage while he led us past the only fixture that remained, the glass display counter where I’d paid for my first goldfish.
“So why hasn’t it sold?” I asked as he opened the back door that led to what had to be storage. “Mr. Navarro’s been gone for what? A year?”
“It’s been on the market for about six months, but the storage room, well, here, I’ll show you.” He flipped on a light, and we followed him into the massive, unfinished space.
“Whoa.” There were two large garage doors, a cement floor and walls, and a few rows of fluorescent lights hanging from the high ceilings.
“There’s more storage than shop, which Mr. Navarro had liked, since it kept his classic car hobby out of Mrs. Navarro’s driveway.”
There. That was the perfect spot for the furnace. Maybe just a day furnace, though. And a reheating one, of course. The alcove was perfect for an annealing oven, too. I studied the ceiling next. High, but some good-size vents wouldn’t hurt.
“I know that look,” Hazel said from behind me.
“There’s no look,” I replied, already picturing the best place for a bench and block.
“How much do they want for it?” Hazel asked.
The price made my eyes pop. Add the startup costs and I’d wipe out just about everything I had in savings. It was naive to even think about it, yet here I was, doing exactly that. After asking Dan to call me if he got an offer, we headed out for pedicures.
Hazel fired off a text at her mom to join us, and I did the same with mine, but she didn’t answer. Then again, she’d been napping a lot lately.
My toenails were Summer Coral pink as I parked in the garage, the logical side of my brain already at war with the creative, listing every reason I shouldn’t even dream of buying the shop. It had been years since I’d been in a studio. It was risky to start a business. What if I failed at that as spectacularly as I had my marriage? At least no one would put it in the tabloids.
My keys jingled as I tossed them onto the kitchen counter.
“Is that you, Gigi?” Mom called from the entry.
I rolled my eyes at the nickname and headed in her direction. “It’s me. I have the wildest idea. Oh, and I texted earlier about a pedicure—”
Mom smiled, her hair and makeup perfectly done, her suitcases at her side in the entry, lined up like little ducks in a row. Her designer purse was slung over her shoulder. “Oh, good! I was hoping I’d get to see you before I had to go.”
“Go where?” I folded my arms across my chest and rubbed the skin of my arms to ward off the chills as goose bumps rose on my skin. There wasn’t a cure for the instant hit of nausea.
“Well, Ian called, and it turns out he got himself into a little snag, so I’m just going to pop up to Seattle and help him out.” She fished her phone from her pocket.