The landlord, Burke Wentworth, who also owned Sierra’s apartment building, had allowed her to construct a sturdy storage shed in back, and it was stuffed to the gills as well.

In addition, Hayden’s two-car garage at her home was her work area, where she refinished, reconstructed, redesigned the pieces she picked up at shows, estate sales, and antique stores. It, too, was overflowing with “treasures.”

The girl had a knack for visualizing some stunning pieces, but it was a messy, large-scale endeavor. The retail aspect of it was young but successful so far.

In the far-left back corner was a tiny sort-of break area for Hayden, her assistant, and her two employees. There was a sink and a three-quarter-size fridge next to a microwave and a cabinet, all situated behind a short counter that fit two barstools. The stools barely cleared the doorway to Hayden’s minuscule office, which was too small for storing stock and contained only an antique desk that Sierra rarely saw her use.

Sierra went behind the break area counter, located the Pinot Noir, and made quick work of the cork. She reached up to the hanging wineglass rack and took down two glasses, then filled them, Hayden’s to a moderate level and her own to the top, knowing that Hayden wouldn’t drink much, if any, until after she locked the store doors for the day.

Hayden came into the room as Sierra set the bottle back down, and her eyes widened as she noticed how full Sierra’s glass was.

“Okay, let’s hear it. What happened to you?” Hayden said as she tossed two apparently rejected pillows into an open-topped bin where she stored the spares.

Instead of answering, Sierra lifted her glass and took a big, socially inappropriate gulp of the deep burgundy liquid. “God yes. That’s good stuff.”

“Want a shot glass instead?” Hayden asked dryly.

Sierra took a more restrained sip, letting the hints of berry linger on her tongue before swallowing it. She went around the counter and slid onto a barstool, and Hayden took the other one, pulling her glass closer. Waiting.

When Sierra still didn’t speak, because she was trying to figure out what to say, how much to tell, Hayden said, “Let me guess. Cole?”

Sierra snapped her gaze to her friend. “How the hell could you know that?”

Hayden took out her iPhone from the pocket of her tailored pants, unlocked it, swiped several times with her thumb. She held the phone up, and Sierra recognized the selfie of her and Cole from the wedding. “Look at you two.”

Sierra did, for the dozenth time since Saturday night. It was a good picture, if she did say so herself, but then she’d been fancied up to within an inch of her life, her makeup professionally applied by Harper, the esthetician at Bliss, and her hair by one of Violet’s friends.