Weston scoffs a disbelieving laugh. “Jesus, man, can you cut her some slack?”
Wyatt turns his head to look at his brother and then looks back at me.
“I’ll see if there’s anything that can be done for it, but I’ve got a full garage right now. It might take me a couple days to get a good look at it.”
“A couple days?” I shriek back.
“You’re welcome to find someone else to take a look at it sooner,” he retorts, managing an even drier tone than before.
“Great!” I leap on the optimism, which I’m guessing is rare for him. “Is there another shop nearby we can tow it to?”
“No.” Flatter than my chest before the boob job, it’s the only answer he gives.
I’d like to add another dichotomy to the list.
Polite,jackass.
Weston steps in front of his brother and blocks off my line of sight to the talkative,superhelpful individual and takes over. When he jumps in, he makes an effort to be a lot more reassuring.
“Smoky Heights is a pretty small town. Only a few thousand residents. Wyatt’s garage is kinda the only option.” Weston shrugs, like he wishes it weren’t so. “Were you headed somewhere urgent?”
My shoulders drop back, instantly slightly more relaxed for some reason.
“It’s not that I’m headed anywhere urgent, really, it’s just that I don’t want to live out of his garage for a couple of days until we have an answer, and who knows how long it’ll even take to fix after that, and?—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Wyatt steps out from behind Weston and barges into the conversation again. “You aren’t living out of my garage. I don’t even know you. I wouldn’t even lethimlive out of my shop.” He hikes a thumb in the direction of his brother. “Not a chance,” he says with finality.
“My vanismy house,” I argue back. “What else am I supposed to do? Just trust that I can leave everything I own with the grumpiest person I’ve ever met and curl up beneath my failed hopes and dreams to stay warm on the side of the road? No thanks.” I cross my arms and scowl at him, face pinched up.
“Good lord.” It sounds more likewhy me. Wyatt blows out a heavy breath, head falling back to look at the sky.
“Okay, how about this,” Weston chimes in. “We obviously don’t want to leave you on the side of the road, even if this is a safe town, that wouldn’t be very chivalrous of us, and the Grady men are atleastconsidered that, aren’t we?”
Weston sneaks a glance at his brother, who nods his head in a way that isn’t very convincing, then mutters, “Yep, that’s us. Just a couple of Southern fuckin’ gentlemen.”
My preferred brother keeps talking. “I’m open to other options, but here’s what might be an idea. Wyatt takes your van to his shop and finds a way to fit in an assessment tomorrow, even if he has to stay a little late to do it.”
Those dark green eyes flit away to the man with the matching pair once more.
“As for your living arrangements, I have a hunch his wife can help find an opening for you, even this late on a Sunday night, somewhere safe for you to crash.”
“You don’t even have a hotel? Where the hell am I, the 1800s?”
Weston lets out a hoot of laughter and shakes his head. “We have an inn, but it’s full right now with all the workers who are here to help with redoing the town. Rory’s who found a place for me to stay while I’m here, she’s kind of overseeing this whole project in town, and she’s good at logistics and shit. I’ll call her and see if she has any ideas.”
When I nod back at him, he steps off to the side and gets back on the phone again.
A minute or so of awkward silence goes by, when finally Wyatt eyes Van Gogh wearily. “You’re not going to get my shop raided for smuggling weed or something, are you?”
“You think I’m a hippie because I live in a van? Fantastic worldview you’ve got there. Incredible stereotyping skills. Does that come in handy as a mechanic? Alienating your clientele?”
“Awful defensive when I just wanna know my shop won’t be harboring any illegal substances.”
Narrow my eyes at the prick, I bite out, “I’m not a dealer, dude. I write code. Hardest thing I keep in my van is Alani, so unless there’s a caffeine raid, your precious shop should be safe.”
He ignores my dig. “What do you mean code? Like messages for pigeons to deliver?”
I snort derisively. “You’re unreal.”
