Tears scorch my eyes, burning worse than ever as I fight to hold them in.
They’re not coming out. Not in front of these two backstabby, two-faced dunderheads.
Stomping a winding path around them, far enough away so they can’t stop me, I say, “Don’t worry, boys. Neither of you. I’ll be gone soon. Gram’s doing great, so I can probably cut my stay here short. I won’t really need eight whole weeks of misery. There’s no good reason to risk hanging around for an early winter, neither.”
Weston takes a halting step forward, his brows pulled low like a descending thunderhead.
“Shel, enough. Just shut it and listen—”
“Shut it?” I stare at him with my mouth hanging open. “Fuck you, West.”
The pain inside me ruptures like an abscess.
I do the only thing I can to keep my nails from dragging across his face.
Run.
I run like a jolted fawn all the way to the B&B, digging my fingers into my eyes. It’s a wonder I don’t stumble over an uneven hole or a rock and break my neck.
Maybe that would be a mercy.
Maybe anything would be compared to thinking Weston McJackass ever trusted me enough to be honest.
* * *
When I get home, I find the back door locked.
Of course.
Of course it is.
My purse. My keys. My phone. They’re all in Weston’s truck.
I throw my head back, wanting to scream bloody murder at the cloudy morning sky.
I want to cry.
I want to curl up into a kitten-like ball and let the pain bleed out of me.
Mostly, I want to crawl under the covers and be numb. Until I don’t feel anything for anyone—especially Weston.
Gah, I didn’t even get to serve Hercules his breakfast.
A sudden disruption—a noise or movement—has me pivoting my gaze on the old barn. I see a man in the shadows, and also see Marty jogging toward me from Weston’s place.
Still pissed at the world, I head for the barn.
“Hey! What are you doing over there?” I shout at the man.
The tall, lean shape tells me a second later it’s Carson. I can tell by how his platinum-blond hair shimmers, even under a grey morning in the shadows.
“Having a smoke,” he says, patting his pants pocket. “There’s no smoking inside, and naturally I adhere to my host’s rules.”
I stop and stare. I don’t see a cigarette, but I point to the front parking lot.
“Well, there’s a smoking area with an ashtray out front.”
“I was just trying to get away from the bugs,” Carson says. “Your mosquitos are a little hardier than what I’m used to. It’s cold enough to frost and there are still too many of them around.”