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“Standard 45 percent after fees. You get an extra 3 percent if you show up in a dress and heels.”

“Seriously?” This has me looking over at her with an eyebrow raised.

She shrugs. “It’s a request. Don’t have to if you don’t want to. But we all know you will.” She snickers, and I throw my hands up in defeat. She knows me too well. I’m not poor, but I never give up a chance at free money. I’ll even show up in a clown suit if it means an extra 3 percent.

“Ugh, fine. What time and where?” I coil the cords and sweep off my workspace .

Summer gives me time to clean and then clears her throat. “Yeah, so that’s the part that’s different. Eight o’clock, and….”

I don’t even think to ask why she’s dragging it out as I go over my space once more with my cleaner and a rag. “And what? Spit it out, Summer.”

“They want to pick you up.”

I’d been leaning over the table for my last swipe but stand tall at her reply. I take a second to see if I misheard her before looking over my shoulder at her. “At my house?”

She nods.

“No.” I turn back to my stuff and finish putting the tools away, then move to the lockers where I keep my work coveralls.

“I told them that. Mack says the client is willing to offer you an extra 15 percent.”

I pull off my gear, mask first, then gloves, and finally the coveralls I put on every day over my normal clothes.

I don’t wear much, as I keep pretty warm in my getup, usually dressing more for comfort than anything.

Today is no different. My black leggings tuck into my work Uggs—yes, I have work Uggs.

It’s Michigan, remember? I might not get cold working, but that doesn’t mean my toes won’t get frostbite.

Uggs have always kept me toasty warm. Well, that, and the wool socks.

My shirt is long-sleeve but thin as shit.

Again, great for wearing under my work stuff, but not so great for the cold.

I grab my boyfriend-style sweater and throw it on before going back to my hot chocolate.

I need a sip of the warmth before I keep going.

Leaning against my worktable, I look at the opposite wall and see Summer with her head tilted.

I know that look. She doesn’t even have to say anything; I just know she’s asking if I’m really going to turn down 15 percent.

I’m good on money, but not great. The extra could push me into the next level of my business, though.

I want to hire an assistant who does the boring stuff.

You know, the website updates, the order tracking, even taking stuff to the post office.

Right now I spend half the day doing the paperwork part of the job and only get to do the sculpting during the rest of it.

I could do more, I really could. I love my job, so working hours don’t really apply.

But I’ve found that if I don’t give my mind time to rest, to take breaks, I dry up.

The mojo doesn’t flow. I have zero ideas.

And while it’s fine to remake the same things over and over, my increased sales come when I get something new out for my repeat customers.

I’ve also been flirting with the idea of making a few appearances. Nothing fancy like a gallery, but maybe a booth at some conventions in Detroit. If I want to do that, I need to build up my bulk items to sell. Which means I would either need to pull longer days or find more time during the day.

“I’m thinking,” I mutter.

“Yeah.” She rolls her eyes as she hops off the counter. “Saw the steam rolling.”

“Your jokes are getting worse,” I say with a frown as she gets closer.

“I’m a mom. All I got are bad jokes.”

That pulls a huff of a laugh from me.

She leans against the table, bumping my shoulder, causing us to sway. “What’re you going to do? ”

“I want to say no.”

“But….”

“But… we both know that could help me get to the goal line.”

She nods as she crosses her arms and looks at the same wall I do, the one with a sign that she was sitting under.

It’s a simple saying: “Don’t quit your daydream.

” And running this business, working with my hands and creating art, is a daydream I didn’t know was a thing when I was a kid.

I figured it was just doodles. I never went to art school, never wanted to learn about colors and all that.

I just wanted to make something you could hold in your hand and mold into whatever you want.

Clay would have been easier, but where’s the challenge?

Artistic welding takes skill that not everyone can manage.

And that’s the draw for me. Anyone can sculpt something—and even weld, if trained.

It takes a genuine artist to make it look good, though.

“This could set you up a year sooner than you were planning.” Summer knows the plan.

Hell, she was there when I wrote it out.

After a ton of margaritas on an awful day, it just all came together.

Every step of the way, I’ve bounced ideas off her.

She might not be in the business, but she can make some valuable points for both sides when I’m debating things.

She wasn’t the captain of the debate team in high school for nothing.

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. I get it, but I’m not stupid. Having someone pick you up at your place is just an open door for problems.

“What if you make a counteroffer? They don’t pick you up at your home but your work. And we can even have you standing out front of one of the places across the street. No one would question it. This street has too many weirdos as it is around here for you to stick out.”

“Nice.” I glare, but she ignores me.

“My point is, you can stand on the corner in a dress waiting for a limo and no one will assume you’re a hooker.”

I shake my head and don’t even hide my smile. “You just couldn’t resist, could you?”

She smiles too. “No, not really. Look, I think we can make this work for you. The guy gets the chance to have you all to himself for the drive there and back, a proper gentleman type, and you get the 15 percent plus a safety net. You don’t advertise your business with your face.

Half of your clientele thinks you’re a guy, and the rest don’t care to think about it.

Plus, your place is above here. No one can tell, and you have enough cameras around that no one could be missed, including the limo driver.

We film him, and if anything goes crazy, I cry to the police about it and show them the evidence. ”

“You cry?” I’m genuinely shocked that she would even suggest that. I’ve known her most of my life and never seen her shed a tear. Ever. “You don’t cry.”

She gives me a one-shoulder shrug before looking over at me. “I would if you died.”

“So, it’s either live and be fine or die? That’s it?” I can feel the questionable look on my face as she nods.

“Yup.” She pops the P at the end to be extra dramatic.

I glare at her again before taking another sip of my drink. “Skank.”

“Chicken. ”

Rolling my eyes, I push off the table and head for the open bays. It’s closing time, and I’m cold. Time to lock up. “Fine. Let’s do your plan. But if I die, I demand a titan arum to bloom the second I’m lowered into my grave.”

“You and your obsession with that movie. You must have a thing for old dudes like Mr. Wilson.”

“What can I say? I’m the Menace to your Dennis. Now get your ass up and help me close up shop. Get the other bay door.”

I grab the chain link and pull it to close the first of the three bays.

Over the sliding of the metal door, I hear Summer whistling.

“Damn, did you get some new inspiration?”

“Huh?” I flip the lock on the bottom of the bay, then walk over to her and follow her line of sight. I roll my eyes when I see she caught the eye of what she always catches when she comes around—bikers.

Gotta love neighbors. But since they don’t complain about my noise, I give them the same courtesy and ignore them. We’ve perfected that. Until Summer is around. Then she stops and stares, and not in any subtle way at all.

“You’re drooling,” I say as I start to close the second bay door.

“You would, too, if you actually looked. They’re the same ones from the diner.”

“What diner?”

“The one we go to every week for our big cheat meal?” She looks over at me as if I’m crazy and rolls her eyes when I give her my evil grin. “You’re an asshole. Will you just look so I can shut this?”

“Sure, I’ll look, but we can shut th—” I stop speaking.

Not because the heavens parted and I found the one or anything.

It’s just something you do when you look over and get locked in a tractor beam.

Or that’s how I imagine it would be. Mom loved watching the old Star Trek shows, and they always stopped mid-sentence when they did, just like me.

It isn’t a tractor beam that’s captured me, though, but eyes.

Deep-seated eyes that, from this distance, are an unknown color, but they’re enough to hold me.

Not sure if he was already looking at me before or we just happened to look at the same time and lock eyes.

All I know is we both seemed trapped in this epic stare-down from across the street.

I hear Summer chuckle, but I can’t be bothered to be annoyed by it. That would require me looking away to glare at her, and I’m not ready. Not that I can’t. I could… if I wanted to.

But while this might be a simple deer-caught-in-the-headlights staring contest, I refuse to be the one to look away first.