Beneath These Scars

I can’t lose this place.

The door chime jangled, snapping me out of my downward spiral. I hauled in a full breath and pasted on my customer-friendly smile.

“Hey, lady! How’s it goin’?”

Elle’s cheery voice filled the shop, and my lip wobbled until my smile fell away. If it had been anyone else walking through the door, I wouldn’t have revealed a chink in my armor. But this was Elle, one of the few people I trusted. The woman who’d held my hand and poured me tequila when I’d first heard my ex was up for parole. The woman who hadn’t called me crazy when I’d sat on her apartment floor and stitched a voodoo doll of him to take out my frustration, disgust, and bone-chilling fear. I could count on one hand the number of people I’d let see me in that state, and Elle happened to be at the top of that short list.

Elle’s forehead crinkled and her brows drew into auburn slashes as she took in my expression. “Whose ass do I need to kick? Is it him? Did he do something?”

The him she was referring to was obviously my ex. And—knock on wood—he was the one thing I wasn’t worrying about at this very moment. As far as I knew, he was still in prison, pending release.

“No. Nothing like that. It’s . . .” I didn’t even want to say the words out loud, because then what was written in the letter would be real.

Picking up on my mood immediately, Elle came to the counter and leaned her elbows on the glass. “Seriously, hon. What’s going on?”

I pushed the letter toward her. “Looks like it’s the end of an era.”

Her brow creased, and she picked up the paper. I watched her face as she scanned it, expecting commiseration, platitudes meant to placate me. But when she’d finished, instead I got a pointed look and her no-bullshit attitude.

“Why don’t you buy it then?” she asked as she handed the letter back to me.

It was such a simple concept, but my brain struggled to wrap around the idea. “B-buy it? I can’t—” I sputtered.

“Why not? You’ve run this place without Harriet’s supervision for years. There’s no one who would be a better owner. Actually, I’m surprised she didn’t come to you first. It would’ve made the most sense.”

That thought hadn’t even made it through my thick brain. Why hadn’t Harriet asked me first?

Because you’re nothing but a shop girl—not owner material, a voice inside me taunted.

My hands curled into fists. I’d been fighting that voice for years—the one that told me how worthless I was at every opportunity. And still I couldn’t shut it up. It was a remnant of him.

Who else could possibly love you? he’d told me. You’re lucky I even put up with your ass. Don’t you know how much better I could do? I picked you because I knew you needed me to love you.

I gritted my teeth as an unwelcome burst of his negativity flooded my brain.

Fuck. Him.

I could own this shop. Hell, I should own Dirty Dog. No one was more qualified to run it. Who else knew where to get the best inventory? Who else could keep the quirky reputation intact? This store was mine.

“You’re right,” I said as I lifted my head and squared my shoulders. “I should buy it.”

Elle’s lips curled into a wide smile. “Atta girl. That’s the sassy Yve I know and love.”

Seconds later, practicality battered my newfound determination. How could I ever pay for it? My savings account was okay, but not anywhere near flush enough to buy a business in the French Quarter.

Elle’s brain bounced right along the same track as mine. “You need a backer? Silent partner? Because I know a girl . . .”

The offer should have been tempting, but I would walk away before I accepted a handout.

Strings. Money always came with strings.

“Uh. No. I mean, I’ve got some ideas. You know what they say about taking money from friends, anyway. I’d never want to lose you, and certainly not because of that.”

The crease in Elle’s brow deepened. “You think I’d—”

“No. I’m just saying . . . I appreciate your offer, but I’m going to have to decline.”

“Do you really have other ideas? Or are you feeding me a line of crap?”

My brain shuffled through all the possibilities. The bank? The SBA? Maybe one of those organizations that support young entrepreneurs? I’d figure out something.

I met her frustrated stare. “I’ve got some ideas. I swear. No bullshit.”

“If you’re sure . . .”

“I’m sure.” My tone rang with finality, which Elle didn’t miss.

“Okay. Dropping it. Now let’s talk about this dress you’ve got for me. Hand it over.”

I turned and unzipped the garment bag hanging on the funky iron hook behind me. Parting the sides, I revealed emerald-green satin perfection. Elle was going to look amazing. And I happened to know that her man, Lord, had a thing about his redhead in green.

“Oh!” Elle clapped her hands. “It’s so much better than I even thought. I’m gettin’ lucky when I wear this.”

She dug her credit card out of her purse and handed it over. “You are the best. See—this is just one more example of why you were born to own this place. It would never be Dirty Dog without you. It would be just another touristy shop. You are the lifeblood of this store. Harriet has to know that.”

Her words unleashed a shimmer of pride inside me. I was the driving force behind the success of this store. It wouldn’t be the same without me. I needed to find a way to make it mine permanently, and I needed to meet Harriet as an equal—as a businesswoman with a plan. Shoulders squared again, I charged Elle for the dress as my mind spun with what I needed to do next.