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“After everything I did to help him,” I grumble to Sophie, who hums in agreement as she mixes a bag of compost into the raised bed in front of her. We weeded that one first, and now it’s nothing but rich, black dirt.

She took one look at my face this morning when I pounded on her door, said “I know exactly what you need,” and then brought me up here to the roof to help prep for spring planting. Sophie insisted that helping her turn over the flower beds would be cathartic. And I guess it kind of is?

But mostly, it’s revealing the depths of my rage as I yank up another weed by the root. Every time I toss another one in the compost bag, I imagine I’m throwing it in Archer’s face.

Very cathartic indeed.

I pause, setting down my gloves to stretch. My forearms and my back are aching, muscles screaming in the best way possible. Tomorrow, my body might regret this. But today, I’m all in.

“You’re doing great. I could use this kind of help on the regular.” She brushes a dark curl back from her face with herforearm since her hands are filthy. I don’t tell her there’s already a streak of dirt across her cheek.

It suits her. Soil is to her what sugar and flour are to me—the hallmarks of our most natural states. She’s beautiful up here, dirt under her nails and sun on her cheeks. I bet she’d say the same about me in the kitchen with flour in my hair.

Which reminds me of Archer’s announcement last night that he’ll be charging me to use The Serendipity’s kitchen.

I have tiny moments when I’ll forget, feeling good and strong as I do this manual labor, the chilly morning air combined with the warm sun invigorating me. Then I remember, and the anger blazes hot across my skin.

Though that could be the sun. We’re having a surprisingly warm day, and it’s almost enough to lift my mood.

“Tell me again about the possum.” Sophie giggles. “It really came inside the building?”

I’ve told her twice already, each time remembering a few more details and embellishing others. It makes me happy to think of Archer shrieking as the possum clambered up his body, using his expensive suit like a ladder.

One thing I don’t mention in any of these retellings is the intense moment when we found ourselves face to face on the floor. Or the attraction I still feel, even now, underneath my anger.

I wouldn’t have wanted to admit feeling anything for him in the first place, and I certainly don’t want to admit itnow.

But then I think of how my breath caught when his eyes locked on mine. The heat of his body so close to mine. The angles of his face softening and his breath catching.

A pang of longing followed quickly by bitterness overwhelms me. I can’t remember the last time I felt that kind of electric charge and chemistry with a man.

I yank out a weed with a little too much force and almost fall backwards.

Whyhim?Of all people, why did this happen with Archer Gaines?

He’s the bane of my current existence, not a man sparking to life a fiery attraction that has been dormant since Trey.

The thought sends me back into a rage spiral as I recount the possum story for Sophie again, this time emphasizing how ridiculous Archer sounded, with his high-pitched screams.

“I managed to drive it out the front door using a stool I found behind the front desk.”

“Like a lion tamer,” Sophie says, a note of pride in her voice. “Willa the possum tamer.”

I do a fancy bow. “At your service. And right afterthat,” I finish, a sharp bitter edge creeping into my voice, “is when Archer told me he’ll be charging me a monthly fee for the use of the kitchen.”

Effectively putting not just one butallthe nails in the coffin of Serendipitous Sweets. Archer didn’t say how much he’ll charge, but it doesn’t matter. Even with Bellamy’s recurring weekly orders, any extra monthly expenses will push me too far into the red, beyond my current precarious situation and into one that’s hopeless.

Sophie’s quiet for a moment, then says, “Do you think maybe he likes you?”

I think of the moment when his gaze fell to my lips. Of the way he jumped to help me in the kitchen and let me tie a frilly pink apron around his waist. Of how he sometimes calls me Willa the Person.

Then I tie a cinderblock to those thoughts and toss them into a mental Mariana Trench.

“This isn’t third grade when a guy pulls your pigtails because he really has a crush on you. We’re adults. And he’s just a jerk.”

Even as I say it, I don’t really know if I believe it. There is something more to Archer. I’ve seen glimpses of it, and of course, there’s what Bellamy said.

But then again, Archer is ruining my business, so I don’t need to wonder if there’s more to the man. Or care. On the surface, he’s a jerk, so we’ll stick with that.