He breaks into a wide smile. “Welcome. It’s a close-knit community. You’re going to love it.”
“I’m realizing that.” I give him a tight smile. “Anyway, thanks for the cart.”
He waves. “Holler if you need anything, dear.”
I peruse the clearance section a little longer, adding outlet covers and even a paint roller that’s slightly dented but will still get the job done. When I make my way back over to the paint section, I’m not at all surprised to find my nerd brothers having a sword fight with wooden paint stirrers.
“Have you decided on a color?” I ask, holding out a hand for chips.
They cease their mock sword fight, and each one passes me a paint chip.
The colors are… disgusting, to say the least. But it’s not my room, so I keep my mouth shut. If there’s one thing I’ve learned since I took custody of them a month ago, it’s to pick my battles.
“Why don’t you grab paint rollers and tape while I get these mixed up?”
“Aye, aye, Cap. We’ll get right on it.” Casen tugs Quinn down the next aisle.
There’s no one at the paint mixer, but there’s a bell with a note that saysRing for service.
I tap the bell, and a moment later, the man from before appears behind the counter.
“Interesting choice of colors,” he says when I hold out the paint chips.
“My brothers chosethem for their room.”
“Ah, I see. Do you know what brand you’d like to use? I recommend?—”
It’s rude of me, but I cut him off. “Whatever’s cheapest.”
Even if it’s a dollar cheaper, that means I’ve got an extra dollar in my pocket.
“Of course, but?—”
“Harold,” I say, reading the name embroidered on his apron. “I’m on a budget. Just pick whatever is cheapest and covers well.”
“Um.” He taps his fingers. “That would probably be our Thorne’s Promise in-house paint.”
“Perfect. I’ll take a gallon of each of these colors.” I tap the chip cards. “Thank you,” I add in hopes of smoothing the edges of my abrupt response.
“Is this it for the paint?” he asks, pulling the gallons off a shelf.
“Yep, that’ll be all I need to have mixed.”
“If you need to do any more shopping, I’ll just bring these to the front, and you can pick them up when you’re done. I can give those clearance gallons a good shake while I’m at it.”
“That would be great,” I say as I pull them out of the cart again.
As the mixing machine does its thing, making a loud whirring noise that makes me wince, I wheel the cart over to the next aisle. Instantly, I groan. Of course my brothers have knocked over a display, and dozens of sponges are scattered all over the floor.
Casen and Quinn, who are picking the cardboard display back up, freeze, eyes wide and locked on me.
“What did you do?” With a huff, I abandon the cart and drop to my knees, scooping up the sponges.
“It was an accident,” Casen says.
“We’re cleaning it up.” That from Quinn.
It’s silly. It’s only a display. It’s easily righted and nothing is broken. Even still, tears prick at the backs of my eyes. I’mstressed, and every time I turn around, one of my idiot brothers is doing something stupid.
