—Hot Lumberjerk—

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JENNIE

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"My name is Jennie, not Alice, thank you very much." I want to smack myself for that terrible, unimpressive comeback. I blame my inability to come up with something—anything—better on thinking we were in the middle of an earthquake, the loss of one of my precious unicorn martini glasses that I honestly cannot afford to replace, and this axe-wielding hipster. Oh, did I forget to mention that beyond the fact that she's filthy and dressed like some kind of GQ lumberjack, she's also incredibly good-looking?

"Well, Jennie, you're standing in the middle of a construction zone, and I'm pretty sure those shoes don't meet the required code, so you can march them right back out the door." She uses the axe handle to point to my heels—which are adorable and surprisingly comfortable.

I take a step back. "Pointing is rude." Where the hell has my quick wit disappeared to?

"So is trespassing."

"I knocked, more than once, but with all the racket going on in here it's not really a surprise that no one heard me, is it?" I'm irritated and gathering steam, thanks to my embarrassment, residual fear, and frustration over the problems this girl is causing me. I can't afford setbacks—there's too much on the line for me. Plus this girl has insulted my outfit. True, I may be silently judging her for her own wardrobe choices, but I'm certainly not going to voice them. Yet. "I own the café next door and all your banging around in here is making my life impossible."

"You mean the cupcake shop?" Once again, she uses the handle of the axe to point in the direction of my café. It makes her tattooed forearm flex enticingly. I don't even like tattoos. Well, that's not entirely true. I don't not-like tattoos. I just don't understand how anyone can sit through hours of being stabbed with needles for the sake of wearing art that could very easily be hung on a wall instead—pain free.

"It's not a cupcake shop. It's a cocktail and cupcake café." Damn it wit, I need you!

"Right. My bad. A cupcake and cocktail café isn't the same as a cupcake shop." Her sarcasm bleeds through in her dry, day-old scone tone.

I ignore the dig, because trying to explain the difference to a flannel-wearing hipster is pointless. She's clearly the opposite of my target market. "What's happening back there?" I motion to the plywood room behind her. "Is that even legal?"

"It's called an axe-throwing enclosure, and yeah, it's legal." She pulls a piece of paper out of her back pocket and shakes it out so it unfolds, then holds it up in front of my face. When I try to grab it from her she snatches it away. "No touching, looking only."

I pin her with an unimpressed glare, uncertain as to whether that's what makes her cheek tic, and raise my hands in mock surrender. "I wouldn't want to soil your precious paper with my frosting fingers."

She lowers the paper so I can see that it's a permit for an axe-throwing enclosure. "See, Alice, totally legal."

I glare at her. "It's Jennie, and you need to move this enclosure thing because all that banging around is making my glassware fall off the shelves."

Axe girl's eyebrows pop. "Uh yeah, that's not going to happen."

I flail a hand toward the mess of plywood. "One of my brand new unicorn martini glasses broke because of you, and they're expensive."

"Unicorn what?"

"Martini glasses. It's a martini glass with a unicorn face on it, and a horn. They're adorable and they weren't cheap and all your banging caused one to fall off the shelf and break." I hold out the box so she can see the damage she's responsible for.

She peeks inside, but makes no move to take the box. "Can't you just move your glasses?" She completely unaffected, blasé attitude is driving me crazy.

I set the box on the bar rather aggressively, making the glass inside tinkle. "I'll have to move an entire shelf. Maybe more than one." I continue to flail my arms all over the place. I'm sure I resemble an octopus on some kind of hallucinogenic stimulant. All the caffeine I've consumed today was obviously a terrible idea because it's making me edgy and discomposed.

"Okay." She hooks her thumb in her pocket, obviously not understanding the difficulty this axe-throwing room of hers is going to be for me and my business. She's completely self-centered as well as condescending. I hate her already. Forever. Like a kindergartner.

"It's not okay at all. Moving a shelf will offset the entire layout of the wall. You can't just take a shelf down without there being any design consequences," I tell her. "It disturbs the continuity and interrupts the flow. The whole vibe will be thrown off!"

And now she's looking at me like I'm crazy. "Well, I'm sorry that taking a shelf down is going to mess with the cupcake vibe, or whatever, Jennie, but unless you'd like to foot the bill to uninstall and reinstall all of this." She thumbs over her shoulder. "I'm thinking moving a shelf is probably your best bet if you don't want any more shattered unicorn dreams."

I huff my irritation, because although she has a point, the only person inconvenienced is me. And all this noise is going to make concentrating impossible today. I avoid responding, because I don't want to give in and agree with her. "How long is this going to go on for?"

"We can stop arguing about you moving a shelf anytime you want."

I've already filed this girl under Jerks I Want to Junk Punch. I hope someone puts Veet in her shampoo and all that luxurious, thick hair falls out. The thought of that alone makes me feel better. "I mean the noise, smartass."

The corners of her mouth turn up slowly until she's full on smiling. Dammit. Of course she has great teeth and a beautiful smile to go with her stupidly pretty face. All she probably has to do is flash that smile and people move shelves for her without a second thought. They probably move entire walls. And drop their damn panties, too.

She lifts a shoulder in a careless shrug. "I guess it depends on how long you want to stand here, bickering with me. I could do this all day, but that means I'm not working, and if I'm not working the enclosure isn't getting built. So it's entirely up to you how long it takes." Her smile widens, likely at my appalled expression. "I'd offer to set you up with a pair of safety boots so you can keep having a go at me, but I'm not all that interested in putting a saw or a nail gun in your hands. I have a feeling it might be me you'd try to nail to the wall."

I flash her a less than friendly smile. "I meant how long do you expect these renovations to take?" I don't want them to interfere with my grand opening next week.

"Dunno. I'd say at least a couple of weeks, but it all depends on how often you decide to come over and give me shit."

"So now you're the one being inconvenienced, is that it?"

All she does is stand there with her arms crossed, wearing a telling smirk.

"Well thanks so much for making more work for me. It's not like I don't have enough to do right now. And I sincerely hope you're insulating that wall because I sure don't want an axe coming through it like some kind of B-rated horror movie!"

I spin on my heel and try to yank the door open with a dramatic flair, but of course the stupid wind-suction means I have to use both hands, which completely ruins the impact.

Once the suction seal is broken, the door flies open and I stumble back, almost landing on the filthy floor. I don't look back as I regain my composure, straighten my spine and exit her crappy pub.

"It was really nice to meet you, Jennie," she calls out after me, voice dripping sarcasm. "I'm Lisa Manoban, by the way, thanks for asking, and for being so understanding about the renos!"

Well, now the name of the bar makes sense. Of course she has a super hipster, but also highly masculine name that's just as sexy as she is. Jerk.

She rattles the box with the broken glass. "Hey! You forgot your unicorn dreams!"

I consider flipping her the bird, but that would mean stooping to her level and I'm unwilling to play her game. "Kiss my cupcake!" I shout over my shoulder, wishing my wit had kicked in earlier. I stalk angrily down the sidewalk and nearly lose my footing for what seems like the hundredth time this morning when I step in something slippery. I glance down and gag, then tip my chin up to the sky. "Seriously?"

Of course I stepped in the dog-doo.

Because today hasn't been ruined enough by my new jerk of a neighbor.

I remove the offending shoe—the yellow flower is stuck to the bottom—and try not to breathe in the noxious odor. Rosé looks up from the bar where she's currently on her phone posting photos when I hobble back into my shop, my soiled shoe dangling from my finger.

Rosé's expression is somewhere between incredulous and questioning as she gives me a quick once-over. "Who are you and what have you done with my friend Jennie?"

"What?"

"Since when do you go around confronting complete strangers?"

She makes a good point. "Since I don't have enough money to replace that stupid glass. Everything I have is tied up in here." I wave my poopy shoe around. "I need this place to do well, Rosé. I want to prove I can succeed on my own—with your help, obviously, and Paul's—but this needs to work out. I can't go to my family for help. They're too…"

"Crazy? Meddling? Impossible to deal with?" Rosé suggests.

"Exactly."

"Well, I gotta say, this new, bolder you is something I can definitely get used to. You're finally growing into your lady balls." She grins and nods to the shoe still dangling from my finger. "What happened?"

"I stepped in crap. Literally."

"Next door?"

"No. Out there." I motion to the sidewalk and hobble-weave my way through the tables all the way to the back door. I throw it open angrily and debate whether I should toss the shoe. I leave it outside, fairly confident no one is going to touch it.

I wash my hands before I return barefoot and still very much annoyed. Especially when the banging starts up again, and it seems like it's even more vigorous than it was before.

"So what's going on over there?"

"The lumberjerk next door is putting in an axe-throwing enclosure."

Rosé's eyes flare. "Lumberjerk?"

"She was wearing a plaid flannel shirt, wandering around with an axe. And get this: Her name is Lisa, totally a hipster, right? She probably changed it from something far more pedestrian, like Lizi or Lila. Her hair looks like it's styled. All she was missing was the black-rimmed glasses."

Rosé holds up a hand. "Wait. Flannel in August?" Rosé asks. I'm glad she seems appropriately horrified by that fashion travesty.

"Or maybe it was plaid and I'm making up the flannel part. Regardless, she was wearing a plaid long-sleeved shirt with another shirt under it. In August. Totally ridiculous. And she's a completely condescending jerk! Can you believe she had the nerve to tell me I should move my shelf because she's putting in an axe-throwing enclosure? Who even likes throwing axes other than barbarians?"

"Uh, axe throwing is pretty popular these days."

I give her a look that tells her how much I don't appreciate her opinion on this. Or the fact that she is most certainly correct. "That's not the point. The point is she's inconveniencing me by using our adjoining wall for her freaking axe throwing! Why should I have to move my glassware for her? Moving that shelf means I'll have to adjust the entire layout. What a selfish bastard."

"Or do you mean shelf-ish bastard?" Rosé grins, and I fight one of my own.

"That was ridiculously lame."

"And yet, still funny."

I roll my eyes. "I need to tackle the shelf."

"Leave the shelf where it is."

"Why? We can't even put anything on it. Or hang stuff from that freaking wall if Lumberjerk is going to be throwing axes at it. And there's still a bar in there! How can they serve alcohol and wield axes? That seems outlandishly unsafe."

"There's protocol. And inspections."

I tap my lip, considering my options. "Inspections?"

Rosé shakes her head and raises a hand. "Don't start a war before you've even opened your doors, Jennie."

"You didn't meet her. She's a grade-A a-hole extraordinaire." Although, Rosé does have a point. "I'll tuck that piece of information in my pocket in case I need it."

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Later, when I'm heading home for the day, I find a flyer tucked under my windshield wipers, which is odd, since I'm parked in the alley behind all the shops, where only the owners and employees are allowed. I lift the wiper and flip it over, curious and hoping that I don't have to fight a parking ticket I can't afford. It's definitely not a ticket, but it's dusk, and shadowy back here, so I climb into my SUV and toss it on the seat beside me.

It isn't until I get home and the interior light comes on that I finally realize what's on the flyer. It's an advertisement for anger-management therapy. At the top, in semi-legible man-scrawl is a note:

I'd invite you over for a little axe throwing to get out some of your latent aggression, but I'm not sure that's a good idea. Maybe this will help your vibe.

—your friendly neighborhood bar owner

"What a jerk!" I ball it up and toss it in the trash. I don't have to wonder how she knew it was my SUV since I have a Buttercream and Booze magnetic decal stuck to the side panel.

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