“It’s real,” I say as the doorbell jingles behind me.
She eyes me again, then slides a look outside.
She’s seen Daphne.
She’s seen Daphne, and I’m standing here wearing a shirt three sizes too small and linen boat pants and yellow work boots.
Dammit.
I don’t look like an average Joe.
I look like the cops want to talk to me.
It takes everything inside me to keep watching Carol like I’m in complete control and not internally bracing myself in case that was a cop who walked in the door.
Why do I have my back to the door?
Why don’t I have a good angle to look at my own car?
These stores need to be revamped. They need to be renovated so that I can pay for gas with cash without being blind as to who’s approaching me from behind.
Dark hair with blue and green streaks appears in my peripheral vision, then a subtle heat as red flannel brushes against me too.
“These too,” Daphne says beside me, dumping six bags of Lava Cheese Puffs on the counter. “We definitely need these. Oh, and two MegaHit energy drinks. Hold on a sec. I’ll go grab them.” She winks at the woman behind the counter. “Gotta keep him going all night, you know what I mean.”
She turns, slaps my ass, making me jump, and strides barefoot to the cooler along the back wall.
Carol stares at me more.
“Thirty dollars’ worth at pump seven, and whatever she wants,” I say.
You still own this building, I remind myself.
Or at least the licensing to the company name.
I own a quarter of it outright with the stock shares I inherited from my grandfather.
Carol looks at the hundred-dollar bill again.
It’s good. I saw her check it with the pen. Mark turned yellow.
It’s good.
She knows it.
I know it.
So why am I sweating like I’ve done something wrong?
“Honey,” Daphne squeals. “Matching T-shirts!Your family willdie. What size is Uncle Herman again? Oh, never mind. You never know things like that. Men, am I right? We’ll get a few sizes in case.” She drops a pile of black Cupholder the hermit crab T-shirts on the counter.
Carol stares at both of us while she scans all of the barcodes with a little laser gun.
“My mom is gonna be so mad,” Daphne says to me. “She hates matching T-shirts. But your family’s Thanksgiving cards with the matching shirts are always so cute.” She turns to Carol. “Thanksgiving cards. Isn’t that the cutest?”
“One sixty-eight fourteen,” Carol says.
“Give her another hundred, honey.” Daphne wrinkles her nose, then reaches into her cleavage. “Or, you know what? Never mind. I’ve got this one. Ooh, but add three of those five-dollar Tarzan lottery tickets in too, would you?”
