My stomach flips over. His building is weakening the lines, but there might not actually beproofof that yet. All I spotted was a brown patch of grass. What if there isn’t anything else to shore up my case?
And what if there is?
I drop my napkin and say to Cristina, “This will only take a minute. Hold my empanadas.”
She reaches for my plate. “Do you actually want me to—”
“No, I don’t. It’s a saying.”
Stone wipes a hand down his tired-looking face. “She meant it like guys do when we say,Hold my beer. Little Miss Pretends-to-Be-Mayor is trying to be funny.”
Our gazes latch and we glare at one another.
It ison. I will find proof his resort is destroying my town. I will find it right now, because if I’m wrong, I won’t just embarrass myself. I’ll prove that Iamnothing more than what he says—a nobody playing mayor.
Just how much can one heart break in a day?
Chapter 6
Stone
“And there it was—a tiny patch of wilting flowers, right on the outskirts of town.”
Clarice Sinclair sets a fresh mojito beside me. “Another?”
“Sure. What the hell. My project’s destroyed. I might as well drown in sugar while I’m at it.” The older woman glares at me, and I instantly regret what I said. “Sorry, Clarice. It’s been a bad day.”
Isaac shuffles the cards and deals them around the table. One to Ron, one to McCauley, and one to me. “Texas Hold’em, okay?”
“It’s fine,” we all reply, not in unison.
“So how bad was the spot of land?” McCauley asks as he shoves hair from his eyes. McCauley is the yard guy in Mystic Meadows, makes a fortune mowing and sculpting lawns.
Sounds like a cake walk, and right now, I wish my job was that easy.
Who am I kidding?
I’m a Maddox.
We do not do easy or convenient.
I sit up and stare at the cards. Three of spades and eight of diamonds—two unconnected cards, which means there’s little chance of winning this round. Figures I’d be dealt a shit hand. Just one more strike against today.
To McCauley, I say, “The wilting flowers weren’t bad. A couple of dandelions and brown grass that looked like Roundup had been dumped on it. But when I tried to point that out, oh no, the whole thing was proof enough tothat woman—”
“Coco,” Ron corrects lightly, as is his way.
“Whatever.”
Coco Higginbotham. Of course I haven’t forgotten her name, but the guys don’t need to know that. They might act like fourth graders and think I’m sweet on her. For the record, I amnot—nor was I at any point—sweeton that woman.
That might be a lie.
The point is, I don’t do sweet. I don’t do feelings. I don’t do anything but frustration, and even that’s been rising today, bubbling under my skin. I push it down in an attempt to remain neutral.
Feelings lead to things like ...feeling.
And I’ve had enough of it.
