Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
And I can’t deal with any of that shit.
So I chicken out—again—and stay the hell away. After Wyatt’s gone, I open the garage and get to work on my dad’s car, if only to drown out the rest of my thoughts.
It’s Monday when I’ve decided enough is enough. Today, I will talk to Wyatt. He doesn’t work Sundays and Mondays, and I go in late today, so it’s perfect. I check myself ten times in the mirror. I slap myself in the face. Then I let myself out onto the front porch.
His car’s gone.
I frown, pissed off instantly.
Did he go in to work? On his day off? Is that a thing he does?
I answer my question with a lengthy walk into town. And sure enough, Wyatt’s car is parked outside his store, even though the little sign on the window still reads “closed”.
No customers? Just us? Works for me.
I head across the street and let myself into the shop.
Then stop short.
Wyatt at the back. Tensed face. Fingers curled on the counter.
In front of him, that dickhead customer in a golf polo, shades on his head, and a slimy-ass smirk on his face like he’s got Wyatt and the whole town under his rich thumb.
I hated him the first time I saw him.
I hate him a thousand times more today.
“Diego …” comes Wyatt’s voice, surprised to see me.
For a second, the tension is released from his face.
Is that because of me?
Did my intrusion actually relieve him?
“Sorry, son,” says Mr. Dickhead, leaning against the counter, legs crossed at the ankle, “but Mr. Callahan’s busy.”
I go to the counter, unfazed, and plant myself by Wyatt’s side. “Maybe you should invest in a pair of glasses, old man,” I say right back, “because that sign outside says ‘closed’.”
—9—
Wyatt
Oh, no.
What did he just do?
What did he just say?
Why is Diego here??
Mr. Bellamy stares down Diego with terrifying indifference. It isn’t clear whether he’s looking at a human being or a gnat that just landed on the end of his 9-iron.
I choke back an apology.
Am I capable of one?
Is there a world that even exists where it’s okay to speak to a customer like that?
And not just any customer.
Grant-fucking-Bellamy.
Just when I’m about to speak, Grant laughs.
A full-bellied, eyes-scrunched-up, pleasant laugh.
“Well, aren’t you a funny one,” says Grant as he recovers.
“Wasn’t a joke,” says Diego back, face still stern, unsmiling.
“Clearly not,” agrees Grant congenially. Then he looks at me. “A young pal of yours?”
Young pal.
I hear all the condescension dripping from those two words.
“Neighbor,” answers Diego, despite the question being aimed at me.
“Quite a tight-knit town,” notes Grant, making it sound like a compliment. “Everyone’s so close. So involved. So concerned.”
“I’m s-sorry, Mr. Bellamy, sir,” I quickly interject before Diego can say anything else—and he was a thousand percent about to.
“No need to apologize, no, don’t,” says Grant with a dismissive wave of his hand at me. “Young men in small towns are protective and stand up for their own. It’s a quality I respect.” He looks Diego over once more. “Like watchdogs on a porch, barking at anything that passes. Can’t tell a threat from a squirrel.”
“Did you just call me a—” Diego starts.
Until I’m around the counter, putting myself—and my panicked smile—between them. “We can move this into my office. I think we were just about to arrive at a deal that satisfies both of our—”
“Another time,” states Grant.
Crap. “Really, we can finish now, sir. Diego, please wait outside until we’re—Mr. Bellamy, sir?” He’s gathering up his briefcase and turning away. “Mr. Bellamy. We can finish now.”
He reaches the door and smiles warmly back. “Your young pal here … Diego, was it? … he has a point. It was unfair of me to invite myself into your shop when it’s closed. Just goes to show how far you go for your most valued customers.” He places a hand on his chest when he says that, dignifying himself with that shiny title. “I know you’ll always do what’s right, Mr. Callahan, to make your customers happy.” Then he gives another smile to Diego, says no more, and sees himself out.
My heart sinks to my toes. Stomach, too.
I grip the counter and droop my head.
“Problem solved,” mumbles Diego.
I snort in disbelief, shake my head, then face him. “What the hell did you do that for?”
Diego shrugs, folds his arms, eyes the front windows like he’s making sure Mr. Bellamy’s truly leaving. “Why’d you come in for that guy on your day off? Don’t you do enough for that shithead?”
“That ‘shithead’,” I say wearily, “is responsible for half of my store’s income this month alone. Half.”
“And he knows it.”
“So?”
“You’re letting him walk all over you. Don’t you ever say no?”
“Why are you here?” I finally ask, turning from the counter to face him fully.
He looks away. “Because I …” He picks at the corner of a shelf near him for some reason, as if brushing off imaginary dust. “Need to get some …” He clears his throat loudly, looks the other way. “I need some food. For the orchid.”