“You can move all over hell’s half acre, but it won’t make a difference. No matter how many miles you travel, you’ll always be a fat failure.”

My father’s words echo through my mind and make my blood boil. The cheap moving dolly I’ve been wrestling with has been stuck on this step, refusing to budge. Rage burns through my veins and my muscles flex. Tightening my grip on the handles, I give it everything I have.

“Come on, you son of a…” I throw my ample ass backward and almost pull the stack of heavy moving boxes down on top of me as I lose my balance and the wheel comes free. Somehow, I manage to steady myself without smashing any of my pottery.

I set the stack of boxes to the side and collapse on the floor of my new shop. I’m finally finished.

Okay, so that’s a lie.

I still have to clean this shop, unpack all the boxes, set up shelves, find just the right places for all the pottery, set up my studio. But, yeah, besides that, I’m all set.

I lie on my back and watch the ceiling fan dance in a lazy, wobbly circle overhead. There’s still a ton to do, but I’ll get it done. Believing in myself has gotten me this far. I’m not about to give up now.

After all, I packed every one of these boxes and moved them over a thousand miles by myself. I know I’ll get my shop and studio set up. There’s no doubt in my mind.

I’m used to being underestimated. When I told Dad about my plans to sell my pottery in my own store, he snorted.

“Waste of time.” He shook his head.

“Thanks,” I answered bitterly.

I try to blink away the memory. The way he never looked at me with anything but disappointment. Everything was a waste of time according to Dad. Everything except drinking. Even me.

Of all his kids, I seemed to be the biggest disappointment to him. My brother and sisters always said I was the most like our mother. You’d think that would be a good thing. Right?

Not in our house.

My father blamed my mother for “abandoning” him with four kids. As if she embraced her cancer or something. Like she didn’t fight tooth and nail against that horrible fucking disease. She was the one who died, but it was always poor Dad.

Poor dad has to raise his own kids.

Poor dad can’t just live at the bar.

Poor dad has to earn money to feed us.

My lips tug down and I wipe away tears I never felt form as they streak down the sides of my face and fall backward into my hairline.

In most families, the youngest is the baby forever. The spoiled one who soaks up all their parents’ love and adoration. In my family, I was the only thing keeping my father from following his true path, the well-worn one he’d beaten down to the local watering hole.

He didn’t like that my existence kept him from his favorite pastime all the way until I was eighteen. Dad was so happy when I graduated from high school. Most parents proudly watch their kids accept their diplomas and take a billion pictures as they dote on them.

Dad celebrated too. In the pub. Alone.

The truth is, I’m his ultimate disappointment. Not only because my childhood forced him to spend time away from his one true love, the bottle, but because I was the least like him. I never had any interest in pursuing law. The idea of going to university felt about as appealing as the idea of exploring a loaded rat trap with my tongue.

For me, getting my hands dirty and making something beautiful like a vase or mug from something as ugly as a lump of clay just felt poetic. I’d like to think I can relate. That I understand what it means to find your own beauty when you come from dirt.

But then, beauty was always the biggest problem between me and my father. The fact was, he didn’t see any in me. He could never see past the double digits on my clothes. To him, it was one thing to turn my back on being a lawyer for art, but it was damned near unforgivable to have curves.

Or fat, as he went out of his way to call it.

So, yeah, I gave him a courtesy call. It was quick and still painful, even though it was supposed to be like ripping off a Band-Aid. I told him I was moving across the country to pursue my dream and he scoffed. I didn’t expect much else.

I stand up and wipe the heels of my hands over my eyes. The tears blurring my vision smear across my cheeks and I stand tall. I can almost sense my mother’s hand on my shoulder as I soak in my new place. Calm washes over me and I smile.

To hell with him. I’m doing this for me. And I fucking deserve it.

With my shoulders back and my head held high, I make my way over to the large windows on the south wall. I lean against the frame and peer out over my new neighborhood when my breath hitches in my throat and I bite down on my thumbnail.

Damn.

It looks like I lucked out. Next to my yard is the fire station. Down in their driveway, two of the hottest guys I’ve ever laid eyes on are washing the big red truck.

Did I mention they’re shirtless?

Heat flashes my face as I study them. One is taller and has a sprawl of colorful tattoos spilling down his arms. His black hair is cut short and the way his jeans are hugging that tight curve of his ass, well, it isn’t hard to imagine stripping those off and letting my hands run over him.

The other guy has a tight swimmer’s body and doesn’t look like he’s got any ink. If he does have a tattoo, it’s somewhere I can’t see. Not that I’d mind looking for it. His light hair almost looks golden with the sun glinting off the truck. His muscles are lean and cut.

They both look like they could be in one of those firefighter calendars. If they were, I might have to buy them out.

How’s a girl supposed to get any work done with those two out there? My heart flutters as I watch the dark-haired guy scrub the side of the truck with a soapy sponge. Thoughts of getting dirty with my clay and then letting them give me a good sponge bath roll around in my brain.

I should probably go say hi. That’s the neighborly thing to do. It’s only right that I pop in and let them know who’s going to be living next to them.