Have you caught up with Master Mac and Brenna?
It has been a day.
It started before dawn, with Mac tossing and turning because today’s the day his daughter’s being released from the in-patient facility where she’s been detoxing from a methamphetamine overdose. I check the time on my phone. He should be finished moving her into my old apartment by now, so maybe we’ll both get a better night’s sleep tonight. But we both have a lot on our minds, so that might be a vain hope.
I worked a shift and a half at my shop. My arms are aching from holding the tattoo gun for twelve hours. But we’re busier than busy, as my grandmother would have said, and down a tattooist until Mac finishes the permitting process for the daycare he’s setting up so he can take care of my second tattooist’s kid. He ran into a snag yesterday about his CPR certification, so that may have him tossing and turning tonight. He’s pushing not just because I’m working so many hours with Fareena out, but also because he’s trying to have everything ready for when Logan’s daughter, Olivia, arrives.
We’re all trying to get ready for that.
Which is why I’m doing the grocery shopping at nine o’clock at night after a long-a$$ day.
Usually, Emily and I put in an order online on Sunday afternoons, which is when we get organized for the week ahead. But I worked through Sunday, and with Emily out of her head with baby-arrangements, she forgot. I only realized how severe the situation was when I got home and tried to make a coffee to perk myself up before Mac got back. Only to discover we were out of beans and milk.
I grab an economy pack of toilet paper and toss it into my cart.
My phone pings; I pull it back out to check it. Between the baby and Mac’s daughter and sh1t going down at Blunts, there are too many people who might need my attention urgently for me to ignore a notification.
It’s a text from Mac.
My Sir: Sure you don’t want the coconut oil kind? That brand looks a little rough for sore, subby a$$es.
I whirl around to find my Dom and fiancée, who must be watching me if he can see the brand of toilet paper I just picked.
His blue, blue eyes sparkle at me from where he’s leaning against a display of wine bottles. “Hey, girl.”
Will an impromptu scene help lift the weight from Mac and Bren? And what’s with the celery? Find out in A Messy Tail, now live and free to read with a Kindle Unlimited subscription.
E J Frost 