Page 126 of Burn for You (Slow Burn 1)
to work! Who do you think you’re honorin’ with all this mopin’ around? Because it sure ain’t your mama! She’d be scandalized if she could see you right now, lyin’ there wallowin’ like a pig in shit!”
Eeny loomed over me, hands propped on her hips, scowling down at the pathetic picture I made in my dirty pajamas and unwashed hair on the couch.
I severely regretted giving her a key.
“You’re right,” I said tonelessly, staring at the ceiling. “I know you’re right.”
“Then get your ass in gear and get up!” She gave the sofa a frustrated little kick, jostling me.
“I’m in mourning. You shouldn’t curse at people in mourning.”
She snorted and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re in danger of gettin’ on my bad side, boo.”
She didn’t have to say more than that. The last person who got on her bad side ended up with four slashed tires on his car, a headless rooster on his doorstep, and a strange, persistent rash.
“I’m up,” I grumbled, rousing. “Terrorist.”
“You’re the terrorist, child. Have you looked in a mirror lately? You’re so frightenin’ I’d hire you to haunt a house! You’re so scary lookin’ you’d make a freight train take a dirt road! You look so bad—”
“I get it, I get it,” I said, stumbling to my feet. “I look like crap.”
Eeny nodded as if I’d said something remarkably intelligent for once. “Like you fell out the ugly tree and hit every damn branch on the way down.”
I sighed heavily. Eeny grimaced and waved an offended hand in front of her face.
“Lawd! That breath of yours is nuclear, girl! Can’t believe it hasn’t melted the lips right off your face.”
From somewhere deep inside me emerged a grudging chuckle, which made Eeny smile and nod her head.
“That’s better. Now go take a shower and put on some clean clothes. We’re goin’ to the restaurant. You got people to feed, and I miss that ornery ol’ billy goat Hoyt more than I ever woulda guessed. Don’t gimme that stink eye!” she snapped when I raised my brows. “And if you repeat that to anyone, I’ll mash your potatoes!”
“My lips are sealed.”
I smiled for the first time in days as I headed off to the bathroom to wash away a week’s worth of neglect. I stopped when I heard my cell phone ring from the kitchen counter. I didn’t recognize the number when I picked up.
“Hello?”
“Miss Hardwick, it’s Michael Roth.”
He was the attorney I’d hired to review my contract with Jackson. “How can I help you, Mr. Roth?”
“I received a copy of the trust documents from Mr. Boudreaux’s attorney.”
“Oh. Yes, um, well Mr. Boudreaux and I . . . the contract you reviewed . . .” I sighed. “Mr. Boudreaux doesn’t want to move forward with the marriage, so the contract is void at this point.”
The attorney’s pause was so loaded I imagined the phone gained weight in my hand. He said, “But the trust isn’t.”
I yawned, scratching my head. “Hmm?”
“Miss Hardwick, did you seek legal counsel before signing the trust documents?”
Oh dear. There was an accusation in his tone. I wasn’t in the state of mind to deal with a peeved attorney. “Well . . . no,” I admitted sheepishly. “The whole thing was a little rushed—”
“The trust isn’t linked in any way to the marriage contract,” he interrupted impatiently.
I rubbed my eyes with my fist, starting to get irritated with the conversation. “Mr. Roth, you’ll have to speak English. I haven’t had my coffee yet. What’re you saying?”
Amusement warmed his voice. “I’m saying Mr. Boudreaux gifted you a million dollars.”
