Chapter 6
Elias
“Be nice,” Mae warns as I stalk after Nora. “Elias…”
“Heard ya,” I grumble. “I’m always nice.”
Ray chirps in my ear and then flutters over to Mae. Nice is a stretch, but I’m certainly not mean. Goldie’s granddaughter, though, agitates me.
I slip out of the inn before Mae can give me one of her grandmotherly lectures that would put Goldie’s to shame. Outside, I find the source of my stress pacing the sidewalk in front of my truck.
“Someone stole my bike,” she says under her breath, jabbing a finger at the bike rack. “Someone actually stole my bike. I have to call the police.”
I lift my brows and sigh. “I’ll pass on the message. Get in.”
Her eyes narrow and she scowls at me. “The only reason I’m agreeing is because I know where you live and can turn you in if you do something crazy.”
I shake my head, yank open the passenger side door, and gesture for her to sit in my dang truck. “The only thing crazy is allowing you in my truck in the first place.”
I expect more arguing, but there’s a flinch of defeat, though subtle, that crosses over her features. She gets into the vehicle, and I slam the door shut, sealing my problem inside.
She wasn’t my problem until Monroe guilted her into being my problem.
I should find a new best friend.
Once I sit down inside, I catch Nora eyeing the grease-stained brown paper sack warily. I nudge it toward her with the back of my hand. “Grabbed you a burger and some onion rings. Figured you might be hungry.”
Technically, Silas made food “on the house” for Nora, because of his respect for Goldie, but I’m not about to go into all the details of it right now with her. Plus, if she thinks I brought her the food, maybe she’ll stop treating me like I’m trying to ruin her life.
I’m pretty sure she mumbles her gratitude, but it gets drowned out by the crinkling of the bag as she rips it open. I watch, slightly amused as she starts shoving hot onion rings into her mouth.
“Napkins in the glovebox,” I say as I start the truck. “Don’t get grease on the seats. She’s vintage.”
Nora makes a choking sound. “You mean old?”
I shrug and turn the dial up for the volume.
Channel BB91 announces the next song, “Here’s a Quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)” by Travis Tritt and I start drumming my steering wheel.
When I used to go on renovation jobs with Dad as a kid, he’d play his stupid 90s country music.
Then, one day, I realized I liked his stupid 90s country music. Now it’s my stupid 90s country music.
Nora makes a disgusted face that I know has everything to do with my choice of tunes rather than the savory goodness of the beer-battered onion rings. I ignore her to belt out the lyrics that seem fitting in this moment.
A groan escapes me when I roll my truck to a stop right after we turn onto Opaline Avenue.
“This traffic wasn’t here thirty minutes ago,” Nora says around a mouthful of food. “What’s going on?”
Irritation needles its way through me. Again, she’d know if she spent even one weekend visiting her grandma that BudgieFest causes a traffic cluster along Skyblue Shore Road ever since they built up The Tailstream River Landing District.
“That wasn’t a rhetorical question,” she mutters. “This can’t all be for BudgieFest.”
Oh, but it is. It’s grown quite a bit in the last decade.
“I figured a city girl like you would be used to bumper-to-bumper traffic.” I shrug as I turn up the volume, drowning out the rest of our conversation.
What should be a five-minute drive turns into forty-five. By the time we pull up to my cottage, she’s lost her anger and she seems hesitant to exit the truck.
“You’ll just have to stay with me,” I say with a grunt. “It’s not ideal, considering our mutual distaste for one another, but it doesn’t change the fact that there’s nowhere else for you to stay.”
“So, you’re doing this out of the kindness of your heart?” Nora challenges, nostrils flaring.
“For Goldie, not you.”
My words are delivered a little harsher than I intended because she flinches.
I immediately feel like a giant tool for saying it that way.
But it’s the truth. This woman hasn’t given me any reason to be overly nice to her.
The only reason she’s getting what I’m offering is because of who her grandmother was to me.
The only reason. Plus, my do-gooder cop best friend guilted me into it.
I climb out of the truck and then stride around to open her door. She’s still sitting with her jaw slightly unhinged, empty brown paper sack in hand. “We’re wasting daylight, woman.”
She curls her lip up and shoots me a scathing look. “I have a name.”
“Get your bike out of the bed of my truck, Nora, and I’ll show you where you’ll be staying.”
I ignore the hissed insults when she realizes her bike wasn’t stolen in the traditional sense of the word. I knew if she had a getaway vehicle, she’d have used it to leave me back at the inn. And, if I’m going to have to be a Good Samaritan, I’m going to make my job easier on myself.
The wind chimes sing cheerily as if pleased we’ve returned.
While Nora fusses with getting her bike out, I make my way to the backyard to free my little friend.
Clo flies out and onto my shoulder the second I open the door.
Once I’ve checked on the others and made sure everyone is happy, we lock up and head back toward the house.
Nora is standing in the yard beside her bike, arms crossed over her chest, and glowering.
“What?” I say, smirking. “You look like one of those strong, independent types. Figured you had it handled.”
I study the purse hanging off her arm and then gesture next door. “You have more than that bag over there? If so, go get it.”
A flash of panic chases away her anger. “I, uh…” Her face pinches like she might cry again.
I’d like to avoid that at all costs. I. Don’t. Like. Criers.
“I’ll grab your stuff,” I grumble. “Clo, keep her company.”
My bird, happy for a new friend, flaps over to her. Though Nora tries to hide it, I don’t miss the small smile that creeps over her face when he lands on her arm.
On the way to Goldie’s next door, my phone buzzes. I pull it out to see a text from my brother.
Corbin: Heard there was a bar brawl over Trudy. I miss everything.
Me: Give up the fireman life and join the rest of us Coves. Fixing up houses leaves plenty of time for bar room gossip.
We go back and forth a bit, teasing like usual, as I open up the front door to Goldie’s house.
The ease at which I text with my brother is replaced by dread at seeing the inside.
I can count on one hand how many times I’ve been in her house.
One of those was last year when Goldie asked me for help.
I remember the complete and utter shock of when I went in and saw the mess, the clutter, the disrepair.
She wouldn’t let me fix any of it.
I know she was embarrassed.
What I could do, and did, was build the aviary out back so I could take the burden of budgie responsibility off the aging woman’s hands.
Once that was established, she moved in with me shortly after.
And, though I wanted to, Goldie strictly forbade me from “cleaning up her mess.” The house sat untouched ever since.
As expected, the place is falling apart. Since the power is off, it’s unbearably hot inside and smells like cooked bird crap. I snatch up the shiny, clean luggage that’s sorely out of place, and hightail it out of the dusty home.
Nora is waiting on my porch, Clo chilling in the palm of her hand, as I stride across the yard.
For just a moment, I’m struck by how frail and vulnerable she is right now, reminding me very much of her grandma.
So often I’d come back from work or doing chores in the yard to see Goldie on the porch with her little bird, anticipating my arrival.
That thought is a kick to my chest, and I’m forced to suck in a sharp breath. She’ll never be waiting on me ever again. She’s gone.
My mood sours once more and it’s easy to take it out on Nora. Who wouldn’t be angry with her? She abandoned that sweet old lady. It irritates me to no end.
I let go of her suitcase handle long enough to wrench open my front door for her to go inside. As if she’s stepping into a lion’s den, she hesitates, and peeks past the threshold like something’s waiting to snatch her up.
“Everyone speculates I’m a serial killer,” I tell her unhelpfully.
She whips her head around and curls her lip up. “Do people actually think you’re funny?”
My mom does. Oh, and my sister’s kids, Maxton and Mallory. They think I’m hilarious.
“Are you staying or not?” I grumble, indicating for her to move her tiny butt into my cottage.
“Just so you know, I’ve sent a location pin to my best friend and my boyfriend. If you try anything weird, they’ll know it was you.” With those words, she stomps into the house. “Plus, I know self-defense.”
I roll my eyes and follow after her. The only thing dangerous about Nora Everhart is her mouth. A flush of uncomfortable heat burns across my flesh. Not like that, idiot.
Once inside, she turns to face me, her dangerous mouth puckered into a slight pout. Now I’m fixating on her lips. Not the time, man, not the time. I don’t even like her.
But you do like her mouth…
I clear my throat and attempt to not look guilty. This only has her growing more suspicious because now both her and Clo are watching me like I might be the predator she was worried about when she first stepped inside.
She’s turned my bird against me. Awesome. What a way to pay back my generous hospitality.
It’s technically not your bird.
I bristle at that thought. Goldie may’ve been my responsibility in the end, but she was not blood.
After a beat, Nora relaxes and then looks around my living room. A sense of pride fills me, but I’m guarded, waiting for her negative reaction.
“This is nice,” she says softly. “You don’t seem the type to decorate well.”
A compliment followed by a jab.
What I don’t tell her is that she’s one hundred percent right. My sense of decorating sucks. But Mom, and my sister, Jessi, are really good at it.
“Your grandma never mentioned you being such a judgmental—”
Clo squawks saving me from Goldie returning from the grave to clobber me for insulting her granddaughter.
My jab back at Nora must hit where it hurts because she frowns and won’t meet my eyes. Not in a fearful way. More like she knows I’m right and she feels bad about it.
Next time Monroe expects me to do something honorable, I’m going to tell him right where he can stick that idea.