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A firm, serious look passed as he held her gaze. “I didn’t raise a quitter. I raised a fighter.”

Her tank was empty. She lifted her shoulders in a sad, defeated shrug. “I don’t know what to do.”

Her father took a hard look at her. He sat back with his arms crossed as he seemed to study her face. “Maybe you should do what you do best.”

A lone tear fell, and she flicked it away. “Yeah, what’s that?”

He leaned in towards her. “Write.”

He walked out of the room, probably exhausted from the most emotional support he’d given her in the last decade.

Write.

Silently sitting with her thoughts and slouched posture, she absorbed his words. Her dad was right. East Coast tough—not some punk who cried in defeat—was how he raised her. She needed to fix this. Charlie deserved to know everything, and if she hated Mack after that, at least she’d have the truth.

Her bent posture morphed into straight. She ran down the hall and whipped open her laptop. Buzzed with frenetic energy like she was racing against time, her fingers flew across the keyboard.

8:32 p.m. A doom lurked behind her. If she didn’t get this on the page or in Charlie’s hands, she’d lose everything. Forever.

The words flowed. It was the easiest, quickest thing she ever wrote.

She grabbed a flash drive and sped to the store.

The line nearly reached the door. Why the hell were so many people at a printing place at this time of night? Sure, the store was open twenty-four hours, but it was after 9:00 p.m. Her foot tapped against the floor as she waited. At least four other people filed in after her, and several people loitered to her side. They probably had important things too. College papers, or maybe work presentations. But not even one looked like their insides would explode like hers.

“Next.” The guy behind the counter smacked his gum and looked like he wanted to be anywhere but here. “How can I help?—”

“I need this printed off. Rush order.” She slid the flash drive across the counter to him.

He barely looked up. “We can have it ready on Tuesday.”

His uninterested monotone clearly showed that he did not care that this was the difference between relationship life and death. This object represented any fighting chance she might have of explaining her behavior and he barely glanced at it.

A simmer started in her stomach. “Tuesday?” Her voice grew a little louder. “I know you do rush orders. I’ve been to this chain before.”

He looked up with the speed of a sloth and blew a small, unimpressive pink gum bubble. “Well, we’re backed up.” He waved to the multiple customers waiting in line.

“Do you have more help?” She glanced at the two guys with name tags that were playfully pushing each other in the corner.

The simmer turned into a boil.

“We’re all a little busy right now.”

“Bullshit!” She skyrocketed from an inside voice to an outside voice.

Skimming the store, she searched for any other worker. A man behind her made a snarky comment, and she scowled so hard that he tossed his hands up and stepped back.

“Look.” She flattened her hands on the counter. “I appreciate that you’re busy, but this is really important. Your sign says any rush job done in two hours or less.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Our sign also says we have the right to refuse service to anyone.”

She was three seconds away from throwing something. A stapler, a profanity-laced tirade,something, if he didn’t hurry the hell up. Her hands clenched into fists and she pushed them down on the counter. “No, it doesn’t. That’s a bar, not a printing place.”

Jackass.She had zero time for this. All stress and regret ballooned to the surface as she planted her feet firmly into the ground. “You’ll do this now.”

“It’ll be ready Tuesday.”

Enough! She was done with this shithead. All of her internal boiling turned into a Death-Valley-level explosion. She narrowed her eyes. “I need to speak to a manager.”