Too quiet.
I’m behind the counter, going over invoices, when the front door swings open hard enough to make the bell above it jangle.
I don’t even need to look up.
“Dexter Hawthorne.”
Yep. It’s my mama.
I sigh and set the papers down before lifting my head.
She’s standing in the doorway like a five-foot tornado, floral dress, cardigan, and a large tote bag hanging from her arm. Her light brown hair is pulled into a loose bun, but the way she’s staring at me tells me that bun has seen some stress this morning.
“Mornin’, Mama.”
She shuts the door behind her and walks in slowly, her boots clicking against the wooden floor.
“You wanna tell me,” she says, voice calm in that terrifying way of hers, “why I had to hear from Summer that you’re living with a woman?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. Of course Summer told her. “Mama…”
“Don’t you ‘Mama’ me.”
She plants the tote bag on the bar with a heavy thud.
“You got a woman living in your house and you didn’t think to mention that to your own mother?”
“She’s not living with me,” I say, already feeling the headache forming. “It’s temporary.”
Mama crosses her arms.
“Temporary.”
“Yes.”
Her eyebrow lifts. “How temporary?”
“Three months.”
She stares at me for a long moment. Then she snorts. “Lord have mercy.”
“Mama…”
“You mean to tell me,” she says slowly, leaning forward on the bar, “you found a young woman sleeping in her car in the middle of winter, and instead of bringing her to my B&B, where she could have a warm room and proper meals, you decided to move her into your apartment?”
I grimace. “When you put it like that…”
“Because that is exactly what you did, Dexter.”
A hand drags over the back of my neck. “She needed somewhere close to work.”
Mama studies me like she’s trying to peel the truth right out of my skull. “Mm-hmm.”
That little hum of hers never means anything good.
Then she pushes the tote bag toward me.
“I brought some things.”
