“Thank you so much.”
Jenny winked with the natural friendliness of a really great bartender, then moved on to serve the two men who’d just pulled up to the bar.
“Eve Hill,” Grace murmured. It probably wouldn’t work out. The woman likely had no need for a makeup artist. But if there was any chance Grace could avoid working tables again, she’d suck up her pride. Maybe she’d even volunteer for bride duty. After all, there was a common denominator among all these people Grace wasn’t very good with. Customers, bosses, lovers, brides. The common denominator was Grace. She was the problem.
She clutched the key tight in her hand and walked out of the bar without meeting the
eyes of any of the patrons.
People didn’t like her.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. She had friends. She even had really good friends, like Merry Kade, who’d been her best friend for ten years. So some people liked her. Just not the ones who controlled her pay. Although up until a few months ago, that hadn’t been a problem. She was good enough with makeup that she didn’t have to kiss butt to keep her job. She’d done just fine. She hadn’t had to ask anyone for help.
But that was before.
It didn’t matter. She’d asked for help this time, hadn’t she? And she hated it. She hated it like she’d never hated anything else. Somehow it was worse than the time she’d spent on the streets as a kid, accepting food from soup kitchens and charities. It was worse than crashing on a friend’s couch for a few days, because she could say she’d done the same for them at some point. This was out-and-out asking for help, and it stung.
But it was better than going to jail.
She stood in front of the pretty blue house and opened up her fist. Her skin showed the exact shape of the key. Every ridge and angle pressed red into her palm.
“Just a few weeks,” she whispered. “Just a month.” And if she didn’t like the feeling of begging for scraps, then she’d better get used to the idea of keeping her mouth shut around people who controlled her paycheck. Because it was one or the other, and she’d be damned if she’d ever ask for charity again.
CHAPTER THREE
COLE GLARED AT THE TOP of his physical therapist’s head, cursing her for an ogre and a devil and a nasty, power-abusing son of a bitch. Farrah looked up and smiled. “You doing okay, Cole?” She pressed his knee tighter to his ribs, resting all her weight against it. Not much heft considering she had the size and appearance of a benevolent fairy. Just another of her evil tricks.
“I’m great,” he ground out between clenched teeth.
“Easy says you’re bugging the tar out of him again.”
“I need to get back to work.”
“You want this to heal right or not?” She finally released his knee, but his hip joint screamed as she slowly lowered his leg to the ground.
“It’s healing fine,” he said.
Her eyes slid away. “You’re strong and healthy. You were in excellent shape before the accident, but there’s still a chance…”
“Sure.”
“When are you going back to the orthopedist?”
“Two weeks.”
“Okay.” She stood up, dusting her hands as if Cole were a pet project. “I bet a new CT scan will have more answers. But I can definitely tell you’ve been doing the exercises.”
He stood and stretched his back. “Thanks for coming by this morning. I know you don’t have to do that.”
“You’re a special case.” She rolled her eyes, but then smiled brightly. “Really, Cole. I want to help you get back in the saddle as much as Easy does.”
“Oh, yeah? Your uncle isn’t offering much help.”
“You mean he’s following doctor’s orders because you won’t?”
“Jesus, I haven’t ridden, have I?” Cole grimaced as he realized he’d snapped at this girl who was like a little cousin to him. “Sorry, Farrah.”
“Please. You wouldn’t believe the things I hear from my clients. Combinations of words that I shouldn’t even know.” She grabbed her bag. “Take a hot shower. Loosen everything up. And you’re making progress.”