Besides, it would be a huge waste if I ruined the one and only vacation I’d ever taken by worrying about how to get more gas and whether or not my car was going to last the whole drive home. I could do all that worrying just as well on Monday.
Well, maybe Sunday night?
I really couldn’t afford any hiccups with getting back to Salisbury in time for my Monday night shift, after all, so thinking it through ahead of time would be smart… but maybe, just once, I could have a little break before I had to go back to doing that.
I pulled the key out and jiggled the seatbelt lock the way I’d learned to get it to unfasten, then got out, started to stretch but then realized how fast night was falling, and hurried around to grab my backpack from the trunk.
I was really here. This was actually happening. And maybe, if nothing went wrong the way I was trying really hard to make myself believe was possible, by Monday, I’d even know what it felt like to let a Daddy do the worrying for me.
At least, for a little while.
2
Edward
“Special, my ass,”I muttered as I arrived at the address my GPS had led me to, squinting at what must be The Plazerra hotel in the fading light. But no, it wasn’t an optical illusion. The Victorian monstrosity in front of me was… purple.
Extremelypurple.
I snorted, shaking my head, and parked my truck.
My phone buzzed with an incoming call that I was sorely tempted to ignore… and by sorely, I meant that my damn ass was sore after the five-hour drive from Wilmington. The number on the screen was Greg Williams’, though, and since it was his fault I was here in the first place, taking his call would be the perfect excuse to let him know I was still pissed off at him.
A week ago, Jason Hughes, an old friend who also happened to be one of the biggest property developers in the state—and one who did a hell of a lot of business with my company, Garrett Construction—had approached me about buying The Plazerra. Apparently, the city of Asheville had changed the commercial zoning laws for the neighborhood, and Jason wanted to tear it down and build something more lucrative in its place.
Since I’d never heard of the hotel before Jason’s call, hadn’t even realized I owned it, and definitely didn’t give a shit about whether it stayed standing or not, I’d told Jason yes, called Greg to handle it, and considered it a done deal. But Greg—who was also a friend, but who alsoworked for me, not the other way around—had refused to draw up the paperwork.
I glared at his number on the screen, drumming my fingers against the steering wheel.
Greg hadn’t just refused to do the work I damn well paid him for, he’d told me Icouldn’tsell it. That Blair wouldn’t have wanted me to. That the hotel was “special.”
But when I’d pressed him on what the hell that was supposed to mean, he’d been… vague.
Which had pissed me off.
And yes, the fact that he’d pulled the Blair-card had definitely had something to do with my reaction.
My phone went silent, and I scrubbed a hand over my face. If I was being honest, Greg bringing my late husband into the conversation also had something to do with why I’d just driven across the whole damn state, too.
No, it hadeverythingto do with that.
If Greg was right—and pissed off or not, I was sure he was, because I trusted him, dammit—then I couldn’t just sell the place off without at least making an attempt to understand why Greg thought keeping it would have mattered to my late husband.
My phone lit up again, because of course it did.
I almost,almostchuckled at Greg’s dogged persistence—it made him damn good at his job, but could be as annoying as hell in the context of our friendship—but just in time, I remembered that he was still on my shit list. So instead—
“What?” I growled in lieu of a greeting as soon as I’d swiped to answer.
Once upon a time, my default mode hadn’t been “asshole,” but traits I used to take for granted—like exhibiting common courtesy or having any form of patience whatsoever—had all died five years ago along with Blair.
The new-and-definitely-not-improved version of me had driven off a fair number of my former friends, but that was no more than I deserved. What honestly baffled me were the people—like Greg and Jason—who still put up with my cranky-ass, short-tempered self these days.
“Edward?” Greg’s voice came from my truck’s speakers as the Bluetooth connected. “Tell me you’re not in Asheville right now.”
“I’m not in Asheville right now,” I dutifully repeated, my lips quirking up despite myself.
“Yes, you are,” Greg said, his disappointed sigh that of a parent chastising a child, rather than an attorney speaking to the man who paid him damn well to do a job that he’d recently decided to go rogue on. He sounded so exasperated that it made me grin… and feel instantly grateful it wasn’t a video call that would have outed me for that. Iwasstill pissed off about how difficult he’d made this whole thing, after all.
