JJ
By nine in the morning, the shop smelled like disinfectant, fresh paint, and somebody’s terrible coffee drifting through the secured door from the clubhouse.
Not mine.
I stood behind reception with the appointment book open and tried not to stare at it like it had personally betrayed me. Opening week was already full. The public announcement had done more than I expected, and my inbox had spent the last two days trying to reproduce. I had kept today manageable: two clients for me, two for Stitch, enough room between appointments that neither of us had to rush.
The front windows were clean. The sign was finally up. My license hung behind reception. Every cabinet had labels, every station had fresh barriers, and the card reader had been tested twice because apparently I trusted needle
