Lord, but this is going to be a long few weeks working at Amelia’s.
“Finding everything you need, Mr. Hudson?” I ask, mustering my best customer service smile.
Carson’s computer bag hangs on one arm, but as soon as I arrive at the bottom of the steps, he throws an arm around my shoulders and pulls me closer.
“He’s not a very good neighbor, I take it,” he says conspiratorially. “Listen, if there’s anything I hate, it’s these local yokels with a degree in asshole.”
“The worst,” I agree with a sigh, forcing myself to not shrink away.
He actually feels a little comforting, even if I don’t need him any more than I need Weston.
Then a honking horn splits us apart.
For a hot second, I’m thinking it’s West, who’s such a jealous caveman he’d actually come tearing in and render me deaf just to satisfy his silly, territorial streak.
We turn to face the small parking lot. Marty’s red pickup pulls in a second later with my very weirded-out-looking brother staring hard.
Can this get more humiliating?
“Excuse me, that’s my brother and our maintenance manager,” I tell Carson, stepping away. “Just let me know if you need anything. I hope you enjoy your stay!”
Marty climbs out of the driver’s door when I arrive at his truck, his crop of coppery-brown hair flopping in the cool breeze. “Who was that?”
“New customer. Guest. Whatever!” I say, walking to the passenger side, pinching the bridge of my nose.
“With his arm around you?” He cocks his head. “Sis, we’re selling rooms, not company.”
“Long story,” I huff out.
I don’t elaborate, either. I just walk over and open Gram’s door.
“Shelly Bean! Oh, goodness, it’s been too long.”
Her smiling face greets me instantly and so do her arms. The woman still has a hurricane-force bear hug, even when she’s barely home from surgery.
She’s also curious why the new guest was getting all touchy feely.
Sigh.
I ignore her questions just long enough to keep my focus on helping her into the wheelchair Marty unloads from the back of the truck.
After wheeling her into the house, I follow up by fetching her belongings. I’m glad when Marty points out that another guest just arrived, and I hurry to the front room where a husband and wife check in, explaining they’re here to see the big cat sanctuary run by Weston’s aunt and uncle.
Once they’re situated, I let out a sigh of relief when I glance out the window. Carson’s fancy-schmancy car is gone.
Fine by me. I don’t need Marty giving him the fifth degree—much less Gram.
My relief doesn’t last long, though, because when I scan the parking area, I notice Marty standing beside his truck, talking to someone who worries me a lot more than Carson Hudson.
Weston.
My hand trembles as it folds into a little fist. I bite my lip, wishing I could telepathically beam my loathing into his head.
The thought makes me smile, but it’s also kinda sad.
God, what happened to us? Does life just automatically get suckier the older you get?
With Marty, we were three best friends.