Page 23 of The Fine Art of Faking It
“I’ve got more bad news for you,” Davis told him.
“What’s that?”
“Insurance company isn’t going to pay out until I can prove that I didn’t set the fire.”
Calvin grimaced. “Can’t leave it like this. You’ll end up with a wildlife refuge movin’ on in.”
“Maybe I can tarp it off?” Davis wondered, rubbing his forehead. He should have been meeting with the chamber of commerce right now to flesh out the details of their Christmas party at the winery next month. Not contemplating how to keep bears and squirrels out of his house.
“Me and my crew will take care of sealing it off,” Calvin told him.
“Calvin, I’m not going to be able to pay you for a while,” Davis told him. The winery did well, and Davis was paid a fair salary for his work, but he didn’t have nearly fifty-thousand dollars lying around in a savings account just waiting for an emergency. And asking his parents for help wasnotan option.
Calvin waved his concern away. “Wouldn’t be neighborly to leave it like this. I’ll pull a crew together tomorrow to get started. We’ll get it sealed up so you can at least turn on the heat and save your pipes. Then we’ll figure out the rest.”
Davis was humbled. Not only had his sworn enemy opened her home to him, his neighbors were stepping up for him without even being asked.
Davis shoved his hands in his pockets so he didn’t let his emotional state run wild and hug the man. “I don’t know what to say.”
“I’ll be by tomorrow. I’d ask for the key, but I think we can let ourselves in,” Calvin grinned, eyeing the six-foot hole in the front of the house.
11
Eden hauled ass into Villa Harvest, the charming and deliciously scented Italian restaurant in town. She spotted her friends in the corner shoving breadsticks into their faces as if their lives depended on it. Layla was the tall, blonde bombshell to Sammy’s petite frame and no-nonsense stubby ponytail that her honey-colored curls kept trying to escape. Lunch hours for cops and large animal vets went quickly… and in this case started at three o’clock in the afternoon.
Eden took the chair next to Sammy and picked up her menu, pointedly ignoring Layla.
“Is that smell you?” Sammy asked, leaning in to sniff Eden’s shirt.
Eden swore and tugged at the collar of her olive-green tunic. “I think the smell is seeping into my wallpaper,” she moaned.
“Who would set fire to the winery?” Sammy wondered.
“It was Davis’s house. More personal than going after the business,” Layla said through a mouthful of parmesan and carbs.
“Layla thinks I did it,” Eden said, perusing the menu.
Layla kicked her under the table. “I donot. I was just doing my job.”
“You asked me if I set the fire!”
“Doing. My. Job. You know I don’t think you had anything to do with it. And no one else is going to think it either since you gave that smelly hot guy a place to stay,” Layla insisted. It was as good of an apology as Eden was going to get.
And grunting at Layla was the only apology acceptance she’d give. The three of them, friends forever, took two things in life seriously: work and friendship… also food.
“I just hate that once again, everyone thinks I’m the bad guy,” Eden grumbled.
“No one likes a whiner.” Sammy pointed at her with a breadstick. “You’ve spent your entire adulthood trying to make up for being seventeen. And it’s not necessary. This is Blue Moon. There are no outcasts.”
It was true. Eden had spent her teenage years trying to be the rebel, and when she’d finally—accidentally—earned that status, all she wanted to do was take it back. She wasn’t mean-spirited. She wasn’t vindictive or wild or reactive. But The Incident had certainly painted her in that light. She still wished she could take it all back. And as part of her penance, Eden had patently refused to say anything negative about Davis to anyone for the last fifteen years. She just thought plenty of negative things.
“I get that I’m accepted,” Eden sighed. “But no matter what I do, everyone always sees me as the girl who got revenge on Davis by—”
“Ladies! What a pleasant surprise.” Eden was interrupted by Franklin Merrill, the jolly owner and sometimes waiter at Villa Harvest, appeared tableside, notebook at the ready. “I don’t suppose I can offer any of you a margarita in the middle of the day?”
“Not today, Franklin,” Layla said, batting her lashes at the man. “But you can tell us what the lunch specials are.”
He ran through the specials adding in his personal recommendations, and they ordered with a healthy side of flirting. Franklin was a lovable bear of a man who turned out to be Phoebe Pierce’s second chance at happiness after her first husband, John, passed away. Phoebe’s sons had varying reactions to her newfound happiness. But no heart could stay hardened against Franklin. He was irresistible.
