Keith scoffed.
She lifted her head to find the man finally staring at her with a cross between disbelief and disgust on his face. “What?” she asked, forehead scrunching.
Had she messed up? Signed the wrong spot?
And why the hell did his pissed off face have to make him look even hotter? He was all smoldering eyes, sexy beard, and rugged male.
“Must be nice,” he said as he slid the card through the machine.
Okay, enough was enough. She could manage to remain polite and find out what his problem with her was. “What must be nice?”
He set the card on the counter then pushed it her way. “Having so much money you don’t even need to check the bill.” With that parting shot he turned his back on her. “It’ll be ready in fifteen minutes, max,” he called before walking into the garage bay.
“It is nice,” she grumbled under her breath. Being financially well-off was something she refused to apologize for. No, she didn’t plan to flaunt her status and wealth as she’d done while embodying Scarlett. It was tacky. She knew it now and had known it then, but in Hollywood acting as though you could purchase the world was not only admired, it was necessary to maintain her brand as a diva.
It was also exhausting.
She liked nice things. Now away from the spotlight, she no longer wanted over the top extravagant or flashy, but she appreciated quality. Clothes, car, home items. Sue her. And it wasn’t like she lived in a mansion, drove a Bentley, and wore dresses made of diamonds. She’d purchased a modest house with plans to renovate it to her personal style.
While not busting her butt at a typical nine to five job, she’d worked damn over the past decade. For years she’d had no privacy. She had to be on every single waking second of every day. So, no she wouldn’t apologize or be ashamed of her wealth.
No matter what Keith thought of her.
He could go screw himself.
Not that she’d voice those words out loud. Didn’t vibe with the new image she was trying to project.
Ugh, there she was overthinking again.
As she turned to wait in the uninviting plastic chairs in the lobby, the door opened and two men, probably in their mid to late thirties walked—no, swaggered in. The stench of cigarettes and cheap cologne immediately filled the space.
When both their gazes landed on her, she gave a polite nod while simultaneously working to keep her nose from wrinkling as she sat. Damn, there probably wasn’t a drop left in the bottle of cologne.
One of the guys was short for a man, probably about five foot seven and stocky. The other had a few extra inches though she guessed he didn’t quite reach six feet. He was thick as well, but more muscular than his buddy. Or maybe brother. There seemed to be some family resemblance. Both had curly, light brown hair and matching eyes.
The shorter one snorted. “No one in here to greet customers. Why am I not surprised at Benson’s shitty service?”
The taller one walked up to the counter and turned screen toward himself as though he owned the place. He let out an exaggerated gasp of surprise. “Keith giving bad service?” The gasp turned into laughter. “You expecting anything different from that trash?”
Michaela’s spine straightened. Damn, she hated that word. No one, especially not a man who owned a business and worked hard deserved judgment like that. Having spent the past decade being criticized by others every day, she’d lost any tolerance for people who thought they had the right to comment on someone else’s life.
Now they were both laughing. “No, guess not.” The shorter one said. “That whole family’s a bunch of dirty fucking hillbillies.”
Seriously? This from the man with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips and open flannel over his white wife beater? She shifted in her chair as the need to defend people she barely knew bubbled in her gut.
“Seriously,” the guy closer to the counter replied. “Wouldn’t keep me from doing Ronnie, though.”
“Damn straight. That one always did have a tight little ass. Though that may be all that’s tight on that slu—”
Okay, that’s enough.
Michaela cleared her throat.
Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dee swiveled their heads her way. “Shit,” the tall one said. “Forgot there was a lady in the room. How long you been sitting here? Customer service is worse than I thought if they make a gorgeous thing like you wait.”
Thing? Did he just call her a thing?
All her self-important Scarlett hackles rose. Actually, screw that. Michaela didn’t need to be a Hollywood diva to have a huge problem with this asshole as well. “I’ve been helped,” she said, channeling the snarkiest tone she could muster. “So, I’m all set, but I was hoping to pass that time without having to hear a vulgar conversation about a friend of mine.”