It’s been six days since I last saw Bree. Almost 144 excruciating hours. I know this because I’ve counted off every one of them as they passed, like an addict desperate for a drink.

Six days. Six days without her laugh, her smile, her sweet curves.

It’s been even longer since the last time I kissed her, but I can’t think about that, because if I think about that I might just lose my fucking mind.

I look around Trent’s office. After all these months, it still feels like his office and not mine, which should have told me something. I was never meant for this job. I’m not CEO material. I’m an artist, a builder. I like to work with my hands. I like angles and measurements and wood grain, not shipping and distribution problems. Not prancing around at fucking fundraisers.

I wander over to the window and look down at the street. Usually this view of the city calms me down, but not today. These past six days have felt like a fog. Nothing seems quite real. Everything feels grey, like the color’s been sapped from my life.

Bree is color. Bree with her red hair and her gem-toned dresses. Bree with her piles of candy-hued fabric around her as she sewed away at my workshop table.

She hums when she sews. It took me a while to notice, because there’s a lot of noise between the sewing machine and the power tools, but every once in a while it would be quiet and I’d catch a couple of bars. I don’t even think she noticed she did it, because every time I’d look over, she’d be deep in concentration, sliding pins into a swath of fabric, her tongue stuck between her lips in the most adorable way.

Now I’ll never see that again. Never hear her off-key humming as she worked away across the room from me.

The thought guts me. I run my hands through my hair and try to breathe away the sick feeling that threatens to double me over.

This is for the best. For both of us.

I force myself to go back to my desk — Trent’s desk — and open up my laptop. Even though I feel like shit, I still have work to do.

I scan quickly through my emails, but nothing looks pressing. Trent has been dealing directly with George Shapiro recently, which, after my outburst the other day, is probably for the best.

Unfortunately, Trent doesn’t actually seem to be talking to me right now. After our call the other day, he’d sent me one curt email saying he would handle the IPO work from here. Since then, it’s been radio silence.

I shouldn’t be surprised that he’s pissed. He trusted me to run things around here, and instead I’d managed to fuck it all up. Knowing he’s mad at me is almost — almost — as bad as knowing I’ll never see Bree again.

It’s also, I realize, something I still have a chance at salvaging.

I glance at the time on the computer — nearly four o’clock.

Being CEO may not be a fun job, but at least it comes with the perk of being able to leave whenever the hell you want.

I slam the computer closed and head out. Lottie is still parked at her desk, typing away at her keyboard. She types so fast I’m surprised the thing isn’t smoking.

“I’m heading out for the day,” I tell her.

She looks up at me and smiles warmly. “Take care, Luke.”

Lottie is about the only person on the planet who hasn’t given me a hard time since the picture with me and Bree came out. In fact, after George Shapiro had stormed out of my office that day, she had come out from behind her desk and wrapped me in a tight, wordless hug. It was very out of character for Lottie, and I knew what it meant — that she knew as well as I did just how badly I had fucked up.

“Trent got the final prospectus today,” she says, turning back to her computer. I can tell she’s trying to sound casual about it.

I pause. “Yeah? How does it look?”

She shrugs, still not looking up. “You’ll have to ask him. I haven’t seen it. I only know because he asked me to set up a call between him and Legal to go over some of the next steps.”

“Right.” So now he isn’t even looping me in on meetings. If it wasn’t for Lottie, I’d have no fucking clue what’s going on around here. I really need to get this sorted out … now.

“Thanks, Lottie. Have a good night.”

“You too, Luke.”

* * *

I get to Trent and Hannah’s penthouse a little while later. As always, it’s Hannah that opens the door. This time she has Libby perched on one hip, and a little towel of some kind draped over her shoulder.

“Luke! Hi!” Her face lights up as soon as she sees me, and she wraps me in a one-armed hug. I get a whiff of something that smells like baby powder and sweet candy.

“Hi Han — is Trent home?”

She nods. “He’s in his office.” She gives an almost undetectable eye roll. “Like he always is lately.”

I feel a rush of guilt. He’s always in his office because he feels like he has to be. Because he doesn’t trust me anymore.

“Mind if I show myself in?” I ask, and she shakes her head.

“Be my guest.”

I plant a kiss on Libby’s head and then make my way down the hallway to Trent’s office. The door is closed, and I give a sharp knock.

“Yeah, babe?”

I push the door open. “It’s me, babe.”

Trent looks up, his face instantly hardening. “Oh. What?”

Well, this should be fun. Might as well cut right to the chase.

“I came to apologize.”

Trent doesn’t say anything. He takes his hands off the keyboard and wraps them around a crystal tumbler that’s sitting beside him. It’s filled with an amber liquid — scotch, I assume.

I scan the room and spot the bottle sitting on a small round table in front of the bookcase. Unlike the rest of Trent and Hannah’s home, which is bright and open and modern, Trent’s office looks like a cross between a renaissance painting and a hunting lodge. Dark wood bookcases line the wall and two plaid wingback chairs flank a small table topped with the scotch decanter.

His desk is still the same one I made him years ago, for his thirtieth birthday. It’s a massive mahogany thing that looks old fashioned but has all kinds of handy little cord organizers built into it. I can’t see them from here, but I know that if I stepped around to Trent’s side of the desk, I’d see the ornate iron drawer pulls that I spent a month hunting antique shops to find.

“May I?” I ask, gesturing towards the scotch.

Trent shrugs. “Be my guest.”

I cross the room and dig a tumbler out of the cabinet, then pour myself a couple fingers’ worth of drink. I take a sip and slide into the seat across from Trent.

Neither of us says anything for a minute, then finally I set my glass down on the desk. I take a deep breath and spread my hands out over my thighs, as if bracing myself.

“I’m sorry.”

Trent just raises his eyebrows.

“I know I fucked up. Like, really fucked up. Tell me what I need to do to fix this and I’ll do it.”

Trent takes a sip from his glass. He doesn’t take his eyes off me. His face doesn’t budge an inch. I come in here and apologize and he can’t even do me the courtesy of acknowledging the apology.

I know he’s pissed. But now I’m pissed too.

“You know what your problem is, Trent?”

He leans back, an incredulous smile on his face. “No, Luke. I don’t know what my problem is. Please — enlighten me.”

“You don’t let people make mistakes.”

He rolls his eyes. “That’s ridiculous, Luke.”

“Is it? Look what happened with Jace. It took you ten years to forgive him for something stupid he did when he was twenty.”

That shuts him up. Jace was the youngest of the three of us, and when Trent and I were first getting Loft & Barn off the ground, Trent had hired him as an account manager. Jace had screwed up — admittedly, pretty seriously — and Trent fired him. But worse than firing him, he’d pretty much cut the guy out of his life. Jace moved to New York and we barely saw him — at least not until he came back for Trent’s wedding last summer, and he and Trent had reconciled.

I don’t want to say it, but I worry that Trent will try to push me out the same way. No way in hell am I going to let that happen.

Trent leans back. “Well, maybe people should stop fucking up,” he says finally. “Then I wouldn’t have to forgive them for anything.”

I scoff. “You’re one to talk — remember when Hannah worked for you? Did I ever tell you to keep it in your pants? Tell you that you were fucking things up for us?”

“That was different,” he says. “I was in love with her.”

“Yeah. Well.”

Trent looks up sharply. “What are you saying, Luke?”

I don’t answer right away.

“Nothing,” I say finally.

Trent’s quiet again. He takes another sip of his scotch, draining the glass and then slowly setting it back down on the desk. Then he looks up at me.

“You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

I wrap my hand tightly around my own glass. I can’t look at him. “I don’t know,” I mumble.

“Luke. You’re in love with her, aren’t you?” he repeats.

I’m squeezing the glass so hard now that I’m afraid the damn thing is going to shatter in my hand. I force my eyes to meet his.

“Yes. I’m in love with her. I’m …” I collapse backwards against my chair in resignation. “I’m so fucking in love with her, man.”

Trent sighs. Then he pushes his chair back and stands up. I watch him, wondering what in the fuck he’s doing, but he walks over to the door and yanks it open. Is he seriously going to walk out on me?

“Trent…” I start, but then he’s yelling down the hall.

“Hannah! Can you come here, please, honey?”

He looks at me and shakes his head softly. He has an expression on his face that I don’t recognize. It almost looks like … pity.

Hannah appears at the door a minute later. She’s still holding Libby, who’s gumming all over her own tiny slobbery fist.

“What’s up?”

Trent points at me. “He’s in love with her.”

Hannah’s face breaks into a smile. “I knew it!” She turns back to the door. “Ally! Get in here!”

A second later, her sister rolls into the room in her wheelchair. “What’s going on?”

“Luke’s in love with Bree.”

Oh Jesus. The entire fucking calvary is here.

Ally grins. “I knew it. You’re such a bad liar,” she says to me.

I throw my hands up in the air. “Hey. In my defense, I didn’t know I was in love with her until recently.”

Hannah scoffs. “Well, that makes one of you. We all knew.”

Trent raises his hand slightly. “I didn’t.”

Hannah laughs. “Okay, fine. Two of you. To the rest of us, on the other hand, it was really freaking obvious.”

I can’t help but laugh. Somehow admitting the truth feels like a huge weight off my shoulders. Except for one thing …

“So what do I do now, smarty pants? I was a total jackass to her.” What good is realizing I’m in love with her if she won’t speak to me? I’d tried to follow her after the fundraising event the other day, and instead I’d ended up watching her speed away in a cab.

And I can’t even blame her. I’d have done the same thing in her shoes. I’d ignored her all night, but only because I knew that if I even got near her, I’d end up kissing her. And there was no way I could stop with just kissing. I’d stayed away for both our sakes. Or at least that’s what I thought I was doing.

Hannah flops down with Libby into one of the wingbacks. “Well, you know, Trent was kind of a jackass to me when we were dating, and I still forgave him.”

“Hey!” Trent interrupts, but Hannah shushes him as we all laugh.

“Sorry, honey, but you kinda were.” She turns to me. “The thing is, he made up for it. It doesn’t have to be anything flashy — you just have to convince her that you’re genuine, that you want to be with her and that you’ll put her above all the other shit in your life. That you’ll fight for her. She just needs to know that all that other stuff doesn’t matter.”

“Except … some of it kinda does matter,” I point out. I turn to Trent. “What are we going to do about the IPO? Do you think we should pull out?”

Trent shakes his head. “Not yet. We just need a big win — something to put this publicity behind us and get the investors focusing on something positive instead. I have a couple of ideas in mind.”

My shoulders relax again.

“Let me know if I can do anything,” I tell Trent. “Anything at all. Just tell me.”

He nods. “Sure. Let me think on it a bit.”

He sounds more positive than he has in weeks — and thank God for that. Maybe it’s because he likes being the one in control again. And maybe, just maybe, it’s because I haven’t completely tanked everything for us yet.

Now I can only pray that there’s also still a chance for Bree and I.

* * *

By the time I get home, it’s close to ten. Hannah had convinced me to join them for dinner, and then we’d all had a drink together after she put Libby to bed.

I still hadn’t figured out what to do about Bree, but it was nice to just hang out with them and not worry about it for a couple of hours.

Now that I’m home again though, my worries are back. I know there’s no chance I’m going to fall asleep anytime soon, so instead of going into the house, I head straight out to my workshop. It’s the only place that really relaxes me.

Except now it’s filled with memories of Bree. Most of the time I’ve spent out here lately has been on the weekends, and then she’s always with me. If I listen hard, I can almost hear her humming.

I walk over to the little office space I’d given her and see her sewing machine on the workshop table. Her supplies are spread out everywhere — spools of thread and bobbins and scissors and measuring tapes. I’d been proud about picking up materials for her that first weekend, but the one thing I’d neglected to do was get her something to put all her supplies in.

Suddenly I get an idea. I whip my phone out of the pocket of my suit jacket and do a search for sewing boxes. I find exactly what I’m looking for right away — a multi-compartment cantilever box perfect for storing all her little bits and bobs. I open a few pictures to get a better sense of the dimensions, and how the legs are attached. The construction is fairly intricate, but nothing I can’t handle. The ones I see online are all plain-looking, but I know I can do something nicer. Maybe a little contrasting inlay work on the top, some nicer handles …

I start to get excited. I shrug off my jacket and throw it over the workbench, not caring that it’s going to get full of sawdust. I roll up the sleeves of my dress shirt and then unknot my tie — don’t want to risk that getting caught in the table saw. Just another reason dress clothes are seriously fucking overrated.

I root around through some of my wood stash and find the perfect piece almost immediately. The weathered barn wood I’d been puzzling over the other day. I finally know what to do with it.

My excitement builds. Time to get to work.