Twenty-Two
A Tale of Woe
Saturday I spent a few hours at the office—thankfully not moving tables or cleaning up from the big Friday-night welcome fête—but after ribbing from both Catrina and Dakota, I swore I would stay home all day Sunday and not do anything related to actual work.
Since when did I become a workaholic?
It’s sort of inevitable around here. Even Finan is rarely home, though I try to imagine he’s out at the vertical farms or dealing with his crews instead of the darker thoughts I have about him naked and luxuriating in Lucy-Frank’s bed.
I’m physically exhausted from the last week, and the soaking rain doesn’t lift my mood much, especially after a spate of gorgeous skies and warm temperatures. But I can tell the vibrant poppies in my front flower beds (planted by someone
