“Nothing. It’s just actually kind of stuffy in here.” She barges past me to the three windows that make up her bay window and tugs open the middle one. I have the brief, startling revelation that she might be on fire this time because she liked the view—of me. But I don’t have time to use that egotistical thought to tease her again because I have real problems to solve.
“Will you delete the damn picture now? From the Cloud too?” I ask. I want to get that photo deleted and get the hell out of here and go back to pretending she and her pesky little sister don’t exist.
“You’re getting paid for the cleaning. You want the photo gone forever, you gotta pay for that,” Maggie replies coolly as she sits on her bed, leaning back all casual, like she isn’t fucking with my entire life.
“You want your money back? Fine. But I can only pay you what Vickie pays me. She takes a cut, you know. I don’t get to keep it all and I’m broke, so I can’t give you anything more than I get,” I explain and grit my teeth because the idea of not being paid for this humiliation pisses me off.
I walk over and stand in front of her which I instantly realize isn’t a great idea. She’s now eye level with my junk. Her hazel eyes seem to grow two sizes and that alabaster complexion is changing color again. And she tries to stand up, but I’m too close and she ricochets off my chest and lands on her back on the bed. I can’t help but laugh, which clearly annoys her, so I swallow down the last bit of my chuckle and take a step back. Pissing her off isn’t going to help me.
“You want the picture, you’re going to have to give us half your booth at the farmer’s market,” she announces as she stands up again, this time without calamity.
“I’m sorry, what?” I wasn’t expecting that but as soon as she announces it, I realize I should have been. “When? This Sunday?”
“Yep.” She nods firmly and puts her hands on her hips. “And every other Sunday of the season.”
My jaw drops. “You’re fucking kidding.”
“I don’t kid about business, Adler,” she replies, cool as a cucumber again. I angrily grab my feather duster off the floor and point it at her, about to tell her off, but then she pulls the phone from the back pocket of her jeans and snaps another picture. I lunge for it but she’s much more graceful and catlike than she was a minute ago and she manages to leap onto the bed and off the other side. Her fingers are busy punching things on the screen as I dart across the room to try and grab it again.
Maggie quickly drops it down the front of her shirt, probably tucking it into her bra. I freeze and she smiles. “If you go for it I will punch you square in that pretty face of yours. And also, it won’t do a lick of good. I just emailed it to myself.”
Argh! I hate this woman.
“The entire season? That’s bullshit,” I argue even though I know there’s no point. I have to give her what she wants. “My family needs the money from this more than yours. That’s a fact and you know it.”
“We lost this market because my dad’s recovery isn’t as quick as we’d hoped and he couldn’t go to the sign up and sent ornery and apathetic grandpa Clyde. And this summer, my darling but unreliable uncles forgot to sign up,” Maggie confesses. “So we need it more than you think.”
“Town gossip is that your family’s done an excellent job of moving to goat milk from the dwindling cow milk industry, despite what happened to your dad. And that you sell your specialty honey to a chain of organic stores based out of Boston,” I tell her, folding my arms across my chest. “Not that I was paying close attention but other farmers talk—a lot. That’s also why I know you must know the situation my family is in with the lost crops and the cider press causing a fire in the barn.” I sigh and run an exasperated hand through my hair.
She shifts from one foot to the other. “Can you get dressed?”
“Sorry. I guess you’re not used to seeing men’s bodies,” I mutter and start toward the door to her room because my pants and tank top are still on the floor in her front hall. “At least not really good ones.”
“Wow. Conceited much?” she demands as she follows behind me. “And what the hell is that supposed to mean anyway?”
“I saw your little police officer boy toy this morning,” I reply and start to pull on my pants. I turn to face her as I do them up. “And he’s definitely been to the donut shop a few too many times.”
“It is so not your business but as I said before, he is not my boyfriend,” she says and crosses her arms. “But regardless, your comments make you just as much of a vain jerk as I thought you were.”
I smirk. “Tell yourself whatever you want, Firecracker, but I noticed you didn’t take your eyes off me the whole time I was cleaning.”
“I wanted to make sure you did a good job and didn’t steal anything,” Maggie shoots back.
“Uh-huh,” I say but what I’m really saying is “bullshit” and she knows it.
The door to Daisy’s bedroom cracks open and her head pokes out. I lied when I said to Maggie at the police station that I can’t tell them apart. I was just trying to annoy her because I remembered when she was little she hated how everyone confused them. It likely didn’t help that Daisy skipped second grade and was in the same year as Maggie. But despite the obvious resemblances as soon as I came back from school in Minnesota and saw them at the Biscuit in the Basket I could totally tell them apart. Daisy is pretty but Maggie is stunning. The type of girl I would totally pursue if it wasn’t for her personality.
Now Daisy raises an auburn eyebrow and gives me a snarky glare. “You’re hot. Big deal. You’re ugly on the inside where it counts for girls like us. Now can we get back to the business? Do we release the photo or are we partners at the booth?”
“Eavesdrop much?” I snap at her because that inside remark stings.
“She has ears like a bat,” Maggie explains. “She can hear you whisper through a closed door on the other side of the house. It’s her super power.”
“What’s yours? Blackmail?” I scowl but then I relent because I have no other choice. “Fine. But if our grandfathers end up killing each other I’m going to make sure that the police know it was your fault. And if my gramps disowns me, that’s on you too.”
“Tell your grandfather the police changed their mind and mandated that we share the booth to keep them from being charged,” Maggie tells me. “That’s what I intend to tell Clyde.”
“Wow. You’ve planned this whole thing out,” I remark. I’d be impressed if I wasn’t so outraged.
