Page 10 of The Jilted Lovers Club
“I think she got a fair preview today.” I glance at the closed door to Sasha’s room. “But no, this won’t be a picnic. I’m afraid she thinks she can just do her business and leave, not understanding that this whole town has been seething since the place was sold to an out-of-town company.”
Bob lowers his head, his shoulders hunched inward. “I’m really sorry.”
Bec lays a hand on his arm. “We had no choice, love.” She takes a deep inhale, glancing at Sasha’s room. “We never should have bought The Till in the first place.”
“You couldn’t have known,” I say, even as the burden of guilt remains heavy on my shoulders. Ididknow. At least, the signs were all there. I suppose hope blinds us all. “It wasn’t your fault.But it doesn’t matter now, what’s done is done. We’re just going to have to wait until this blows over.”
It isn’t going to just blow over, though. I know it, and Bob and Bec know it too. If we’d had more time, we could have sold the business to someone in town, or vetted the new owners. Maybe made an exit plan so that The Till could continue to exist, but under new ownership, or even a partnership. But time was not on our side, and Mr. Winslow’s offer was enough to undo all the damage that was already done.
And who’s to say Lahoma Springs doesn’t need a luxury watch shop? It’s an odd choice for our simple town, but maybe it can be a step in the right direction.
Or maybe it will bomb, and the space can go up for sale again, undoing the rushed choice we’d made.
“So, tell us about that woman then,” Bec says, nodding at Sasha’s room. “What’s her name? Why is she here? Did she give you any signs on what to expect from Winslow & Associates?”
I shake my head no. “Her name is Jordy, and I actually don’t know much about her at all, or how involved she is with Winslow. From what I can tell, she’s here to design the new store, and she’s close enough to Mr. Winslow that she’s carrying a credit card with his name on it. She paid for everyone’s meal tonight at Charred,” I wince. “Man, I don’t know if she realizes what she did. The place was packed, and you know how this town can put away its alcohol. There had to be at least eighty people in there, which means that tab could have been more than $15,000.” I look at them, grimacing. “I guess we’ll find out what kind of boss Mr. Winslow is if she still has a job in the morning.”
And if she loses her job, I had a hand in it.
“I’ll call Bernie in the morning,” Bec says. “I’ll straighten this whole thing out. If I just tell her what happened—”
“No, you can’t,” Bob growls.
“I don’t mean about Sasha,” Bec rushes out, but her furrowed brow says differently. “Maybe if I just explain the situation. I mean, that this poor woman is trying to do her job…” She trails off.
“I tried that already,” I say. “Trust me, Bernie isn’t going to budge, which means Jordy has no place to stay.”
“Well, that’s easy to fix. She can stay here.” Bec looks at her husband, who doesn’t return the same hospitality in his grimace.
“Bec…” He starts, but I cut in.
“No, you two have done enough. You don’t need to be bringing in every stray that lands on your doorstep.” I wink, referring to myself and the day I showed up with Sasha, her belly already protruding over her sweatpants, and no place to go. Bob and Bec hadn’t known I even existed, and they still took me in with their daughter. Bob helped me build the house up the hill for our family, enlisting a few neighbors to ensure we had a good roof over our heads, running water, electricity, and a two-minute walk to Mimi and Papa’s. And when Sasha left, there was no talk about us leaving. It may have had more to do with Lottie than me, but Bob and Bec are the closest thing I have to family, besides my daughter.
“We can figure it all out in the morning,” Bec says. “If you want to take Lottie home, we can manage it from here.”
“I’m not leaving you alone with a stranger.”
Bec rolls her eyes. “It’s not like she’s dangerous.”
“We don’t know that.” I highly doubt she’s a threat. She’s stubborn and difficult, and her attitude sucks. But dangerous? I can’t see it. “Besides, Lottie is already asleep and if I have to move her, it will be another hour to get her back down. It’s easier if I just take the couch.”
“Fine,” Bec relents. “But if you’re staying, then you’re enjoying a Felix family-style breakfast in the morning before you go out in the fields.”
She says this as if I’m not here every morning, starting my day with her buttermilk pancakes, bacon, and eggs. Still, my mouth waters at the mere mention.
Bob and Bec retire shortly after, but not before Bec pulls every blanket and pillow from the hall closet for my couch bed. As I lie there in the still of night, my daughter’s soft breathing competing with the hooting owls in the nearby trees, I think of Jordy. Is she okay? Will she know where she is in the morning? Will she be pissed to find herself in a strange house wearing strange clothes, stranded in this strange town?
I can’t leave it. I get up and pad back to the kitchen, pulling out Bec’s notebook she keeps in the junk drawer, along with a pen. Then I scribble out a note. Retrieving a glass of water and some aspirin, I creep to the bedroom where she’s sleeping—the room that used to belong to the mother of my child.
I creak the door open, holding my breath as I listen for signs of life. The room is silent, and for a moment, I’m afraid that maybe we’ve made a mistake letting Jordy go to bed. What if she’s too drunk? What if she isn’t breathing? But then I hear her sigh, followed by a heavy flop onto her belly. I cover my smile, then feel like a complete perv as I take in those tiny shorts she’s wearing that barely cover her ass.
Goddamn, her legs are long.
She doesn’t move again as I slide to her side of the bed and place the note on the bedside table, leaning it against the glass of water alongside the painkillers. I want to stay where I am, watch her sleep, watch the way her long lashes brush against her high cheekbones and how her face softens when she isn’t scowling. But I feel like Edward inTwilight, whose creepy stalking while Bella slept never sat well with me. If it’s not right for a hundred-year-old vampire, it certainly isn’t right for a thirty-year-old sad sack of a man.
So I leave the room, closing the door behind me, and try not to dwell too much on this gorgeous, impossible nightmare of a woman sleeping a few dozen feet away from me.
I Wet My Plants
