Page 55 of Real Good Love
He nods.
“Fucking hell.”
“We’re booked out four months in advance right now, so we don’t do shit like that unless it’s worth our while.”
“Refund her card and then charge me all of it.” Fuck, this is going to set me back on the profit I figured I’d pull in from the job, but it has to be done.
Del hits a few more keys on the keyboard. “Unless you’ve got her card handy, I can’t do that.”
Fuck. “If she calls with the number, you’ll refund it, though?”
He looks up. “Only if you’re right there with another card to charge it to. I don’t do this shit for free.”
“Not a problem.”
“Maybe this isn’t my place, but you ever think about accepting her goodwill gesture and just move on? She pulled in favors to cover your ass, and you don’t sound all that grateful about it.”
The last thing I need is a lecture from a stranger. “I’m grateful; don’t get me wrong. But I’m also the kind of man who pays for his own shit, regardless of how I got in that position.”
Del shrugs and grabs my credit card off the counter to run it for the remaining amount. “Fair enough.”
After I sign the receipt, we head outside where two of his guys are ready to load the seats into the back of my truck.
“Appreciate your help.” I shake both guys’ hands once they’re finished and turn to Del. “Appreciate yours too.”
“Don’t be too hard on her. It was my fuckup that you ever found out to begin with.”
We shake hands, and when I release his, I respond. “Yeah, but she’s the one who asked you not to tell me, and that ain’t cool. I’ll deal with that myself, though. Thanks again.”
I climb into my truck and turn the key. As I’m pulling out of the parking lot, my first instinct is to pick up my phone and call Banner to ask her what the hell she was thinking, but this can wait until I see her.
It’s a long ride home to Gold Haven.
Chapter 29
Banner
Irush around Logan’s kitchen, darting between the oven and the stove and the microwave and the fridge, hoping like hell I can actually pull off my supposedly simple dinner of home-style baked pork chops, mashed potatoes, steamed broccoli, and cherry cobbler.
Women who do this every day should be rewarded with a boatload of medals, because it isnoteasy. The shopping, the prep, the planning, and sweet Jesus, thetiming.
If Logan comes home late and all this turns to crap or ends up cold, I might sit down at the bar and cry into my wine.
Wine.Maybe that’s the answer. I pour another glass of the red I picked up at the store, and take a sip.Okay, I can do this. I feel good.
At least until the kitchen timer goes off, and I have to scramble to remember which thing I was actually timing. The broccoli is last, so it has to be the potatoes.
A giant pot is boiling on the stove, and I pull up the recipe on my phone again and reread how to test to see if they’re done.
Stabbing them with a fork doesn’t seem all that hard. I attempt to stab into a potato on the top of the pile, but it evades me.
Shit.
Reaching for a big spoon, I fish a potato out and stab it. The fork slides in and out easily.
That means it’s done, right?
I bet this is where people with normal families would be able to pick up the phone and call Mom for further instructions. But I don’t have a normal family, and the only person I could call to ask would have been Mrs.Frances. A pang of sadness brings the burn of tears behind my eyes along with a reminder that I need to call Sofia and check in on both her and Jordana.
