If I have my facts right, she’s married to one of the guys who invested in turning a nearby formerly private ski retreat for some old billionaire into Spruce Creek Retreats, so she could technically be one of my bosses, but she’s not on any of thepaperwork I’ve filled out for the retreat center, so I don’t offer any more information.
The doorbell jingles, making me instinctively glance around for a mirror or reflective surface to see who just came in.
Can’t find one.
Don’t like it. Dealing with crowds was—is—part of my job, and I dislike both having my back to the door and not having any way beyond obviously turning around to keep track of what’s happening behind me.
Sabrina looks past us, her brows drawing together the slightest bit as the two customers next to me side-slide off their stools. “Who’s that with Lucky?”
“You weren’t supposed to be working today,” Decker says again.
I don’t need to turn around to know who’s here with Lucky.
It’ll be Margie.
Probably. My body’s as tense as it would be if it’s Margie, and it makes sense that they’d be hanging out together.
Selling her cover story about being a failed nursing major who needed a housekeeping job in the mountains.
Sabrina snorts at Decker. “You know I was going to hear that you showed up for breakfast with a guy whose face had a fight with hair dye and that Lucky showed up for breakfast with a woman, so what difference does it make if I’m here to see it myself or if I hear about it later?”
“All the difference,” Decker tells her. “It makes all the difference.”
Understandable.
The best, most reliable information comes from the nuance, and you don’t get the nuance if you don’t see it.
From what Decker’s told me, Sabrina gets the nuance. And that will make her my new best friend.
I want to know everything. Helps me do my job better.
“Lucky, look who’s here,” Sabrina calls. She points to the empty seats beside me. “And look! I saved you a space.”
Decker sighs and rubs a hand over his face.
Not like I have much to report to him yet other than that Margie’s freakishly strong to be able to wield a twelve-inch cast-iron skillet—and yeah, I have a bruise, but I don’t think any cracked ribs—and that she’s definitely related to him if her idea of the best way to jerry-rig home defense is to use hair dye, flour, and a recording of various people threatening to kill you.
That’s a Sullivan-triplet-level security system.
“Oh, hey, you two meet in the daylight yet?” Lucky Sullivan asks me as he drops into the seat beside me, Margie at his side.
The triplets are identical except for the way their personalities shine through and their style choices. Decker’s a scruffy-faced hiker type, whereas Lucky’s vibe is best described as former high school golden boy.
Brown hair short and styled, beard neatly trimmed, shirt a button-down, and his jeans look like they were pressed.
“We’ve met,” I tell him while Margie gives me a lopsided grin and says, “Not really.”
“Meet in the daylight?” Sabrina asks. “What does that mean?”
Lucky hooks a thumb at his half sister, who has curly dark brown hair, glasses that she wasn’t wearing last night, and is dressed in jeans and a green flannel open over a simple T-shirt bearing a smiley face.
She’s familiar.
And pretty. Her blue eyes have a glimmer of a sparkle, and her skin reminds me of a peach.
But the familiar part is what I need to concentrate on.
Why thefuckis she familiar?
