Page 6 of This Life of Mine

Still, it did manage to distract me from the train wreck of a date I’d endured earlier yesterday evening, so I can’t call it a total loss.

I roll over and silence the alarm on my phone. The shrill—treacherous sound feels less like a wake-up call and more like a personal attack.

I’m irritated by the alarm, but far more irritated with myself.

Why do I do this? Why do I convince myself every single night that I’ll only reada few pagesbefore bed?

It’s a lie. A blatant lie.

Five pages somehow become ten chapters. One chapter becomes one more chapter. Then suddenly it’s midnight, my eyes burn, and I’m emotionally invested in fictional people making terrible decisions.

Every. Single. Time.

Running a bakery, bookshop, and cafe gives you unlimited access to temptation.

We only sell fiction, and I don’t have any regrets or reservations about that decision. Nonfiction gives you information, but fiction gives you experience. Fictional storiestake you to another place. They allow you to experience emotions you were unaware you lacked. They ask dangerous questions—about desire, fear, morality—and don’t always give neat answers in return.

Last night, my escape took an interesting sharp turn, literally.

I found myself deep in a story featuring a masked stalker, who at one point stabs a knife into a woman’s mattress and says, “I want to watch you ride it.”

Like, excuse the-hell-out-of-me?! It was so ridiculous—and wild—yet intriguing. The thought hijacked my brain. The kind of line you read once…and reread to be sure you didn’t hallucinate it.

Naturally, my mind skipped past the romance and dove straight into logistics.

Wouldn’t that hurt? Or at least be wildly uncomfortable? How would one maneuver it? Following that, the more unsettling question arose: is this disturbing, or is it somehow hot? And if it’s hot, what did that say about me?

After I closed the book, I was wide awake, trapped in a spiral of moral confusion and unwanted self-reflection. I eventually accepted the truth. Yes, I found it very fucking hot.

I was also left wondering whether this is something I should casually mention to my therapist at our next session or quietly pretend never happened.

That, of course, is the power of fiction.

I drag myself out of bed and head for the shower. Thankfully, the shop is only minutes away.

By the time the water has worked the sleep from my bones, I’m dressed in my usualEnchanted NookT-shirt and black workout pants.

I quickly blow-dry my hair and rapidly run my straightener through it. Next, I put on my hideous but oh-so-comfortable chef Crocs.

When you’re standing all day like I am, there’s no point in considering wearing cute shoes. You have to be far more practical.

I grab my makeup bag, Stanley, purse, and my iPad loaded with new recipe ideas, and step outside.

The morning air is cool as I load everything into the car and climb into my Ford Bronco, a maneuver that, at five-foot-two, requires a small hop and a bit of determination.

The blue Bronco was a gift to myself after we crossed one million dollars in sales only four months after opening our doors.

I’d wanted a Bronco for years. This one represented more than a vehicle. It represented everything I’d built after my life fell apart.

I pull my phone from my purse and regret it the second I do.

Twenty-three unread text messages. Six missed calls. Four voicemails.

All from Cole.

Chapter two

Lina