“You look all sweaty and gross,” Harper cheerily tells me over the cup of coffee she’s sipping.
Sunlight streams in through the windows and double French doors, making the white quartzite countertops almost blinding. Everything in the kitchen is a shade of eggshell white, from the cabinets to the paint on the walls. The only splashes of color are the slate-blue- and gray-tiled backsplash, the various pictures hanging on the walls, and the glass bowl filled with red roses. I drop the tea rose I picked into it, then cozy up to where Harper is leaning on the center island, intentionally brushing my sweaty arm against her.
“Eww, stop.” She tries to shove me away.
Grabbing the mug from her hand, I guzzle the rest of its contents. I should’ve checked the temperature first. The scalding hot coffee burns its way down my esophagus.
“Hey!” She smacks my arm.
“Finders, keepers. And I need it more than you.”
I go to wrap my arm around her for a good morning side hug.
“You smell. Shit, Jordan, stop! You’ll get my outfit all funky,” she yelps when I grab hold of her and smush us together just to be extra annoying.
“Serves you right for rebuking me,” I reply, laughing at her cute, scowling face, and let her go.
She smooths down her silk blouse and checks to make sure there are no sweat stains on the fabric. “I bet you can’t even spell that, let alone give me the definition.”
Water goes into the Keurig, and I add a pod from the carousel next to it.
“You’re extra sassy this morning. You’re also a tattletale. Your husband just called me.”
Her turquoise irises twinkle, and she bites the inside of her cheek. “Oh?”
So obvious.
“No wonder you suck at poker.”
She pouts and swipes the mug of coffee as soon as the Keurig spits out the last drop. Popping up on her tiptoes, she kisses my cheek. “Got to get to work. You’re a good man, Jordan, so I know you’ll do the right thing. Tell Douglass hi for me when you see her. She’s staying at her aunt Natalie’s,” she singsongs, giving me a finger wave over her shoulder.
I grimace at her back as she walks out of the kitchen.
“Who says I’ll be seeing her?”
Her laughter trails after her as she disappears through the door that leads to the attached garage.
Damn sister with her damn intuition.
Chapter 9
I hit my forehead on the steering wheel a few times. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but hard enough to help dispel some of the frustration I’m feeling. I’ve been driving around most of the day. I’m tired and hangry. And not the kind of hangry where a Snickers bar will suffice. The needle mocks me with how empty the gas tank is, letting me know I’m about to drop to the point of “driving on fumes.” Gas costs money, and my meager savings account I’ve been dipping into was cursing me a blue streak right now.
Woodspire is a small town. Definitely not as big nor as populous as the major cities of Houston, Austin, Dallas, or San Antonio. But it’s not that small, for Pete’s sake. Fifty thousand people live here. It has thriving business and industrial districts. Restaurants, bars, and fast-food joints. Hotels and offices in mini skyscrapers. A lot of newer construction that hadn’t been here five years ago, mostly new housing communities as families branch out to the rural countryside seeking larger plots of land and open spaces. Woodspire has ten goddamn Starbucks. You’d think I’d be able to find a jobsomewhere.
I’m on the verge of becoming desperate. I’ll take any job. I don’t care what it is.
“I already have a house manager, Daniella, but if you don’t mind running errands, you could—”
Any job but that one. Besides, I knew his offer was total bullshit. He only said it to appease Harper.
After driving the entirety of Woodspire in search of gainful employment and not finding anything, I’d crossed over the county line to the next town over and was met with the same results. No one is currently hiring. I didn’t want to travel any farther. What would be the point in having a job where the gas to get to and from it every day would cost more than the wages I’d earn?
The dark sign with gold lettering across the street from where I’m parked catches my attention. I eye the gentlemen’s club for longer than I care to admit before snorting with derision. A stripper I most certainly am not. They’d laugh me out of the place if I walked in asking for a job. I’m all thick thighs, ample curves, and am uncoordinated on a good day. I have stretch marks on my upper thighs and stomach from the sudden fifty pounds I amassed when I was a teenager. I’m as close to stripper material as a brown paper bag.
“Shut up,” I grouse at my stomach when it growls for the thousandth time.
Checking my wallet, I count twenty dollars in cash left. Enough to hopefully buy a sandwich and put five dollars of gas in the tank. Fuck my life.
