Chapter 3
Grant circled the block for the umpteenth time, his mood growing fouler by the minute.
It wasn’t that there wasn’t any place to park his recently departed dear old dad’s beater of a truck.
Despite its extended cab and long box, there was plenty of room in front of The Second Chance Shop, situated as it was on this quiet side road a few streets off the main drag.
No, his stalling was down to the fact that the last thing he wanted to do was discuss his situation with the woman who owned the place.
He didn’t want her to be privy to personal details about his life.
And he especially didn’t want to have business dealings with her when she was obviously an amateur, or worse, a bored housewife opening a shop for a hobby or out of “passion” on her husband’s dime.
What else could explain her lollygagging around and failing to open for weeks?
It was abundantly clear to anyone who’d been keeping an eye on the place, which Grant had been—but only because it was en route to his favorite burger place and because he needed its self-professed services—that it was more than ready to open its doors.
If you were running a business as a business, you opened as quickly as you could.
Or, at the very least, you updated your bloody “Coming Soon” signs with a date, so potential customers had some clue about when they could expect to be graced with your services.
And he was sick to death of the hyperactively cheery voicemail message he got every time he called the phone number on the sign. “Opening day’s just around the corner. We can’t wait to meet you!”
Yeah, right! He’d called every day for almost two weeks.
“You could leave a message, jackass,” his conscience reminded him—and thanks, Sherlock, obviously he could—but that would mean possibly getting a call back when he couldn’t handle talking to anyone.
He needed to be in a particular headspace to field calls or speak to someone face-to-face these days.
The shop’s lights flicked on. Grant slowed the truck’s roll.
That was new. As far as he could tell, she usually spent hours in the closed shop with the place as shadowy as a tomb—just another thing that made him shake his head.
He braked harder, coming to a full stop and letting the truck idle in the middle of the road.
There was no traffic anyway. Add that to his list of flaws about this stranger and her business.
What a stupid, out-of-the-way location. Sure, it was only a five-minute walk from the rest of the downtown’s core shopping area, but in a small town, that few minutes might as well be a few miles. If you asked him, anyway.
He rubbed his chin—noting with some surprise that his failure to shave had far surpassed five o’clock shadow. He was well on his way to having a scruffy beard.
“So, what’s it going to be?” he mumbled, checking his rearview mirror to make sure no one had driven up behind him while he was lost in his stalker-like deliberations. “Piss or get off the pot! Are you going to talk to the old bat today or not?”
Beside him on the bench seat, Grover raised his head and gave Grant the kind of reproachful, long-suffering look that only a distinguished old yellow Lab could pull off, as if he was well-used to his owner’s rants, but found them tedious, nonetheless.
For a fraction of a second, Grant’s mood lifted. He rubbed Grover’s thick neck, right behind his brown leather collar, just the way the dog liked it. “Sorry, boy. Just remember, though. The old saying is ‘dogs are good company—not men.’”
Grover sighed and settled his noble head back onto his paws, his point made.
Shame made Grant wince. Despite how Grover always forgave his bad temper, Grant was acting like a complete loser, and he knew it.
Holding his misery and bitterness against some unwitting entrepreneur just because he had issues with his ex-wife was more than unfair. It was pitiful.
He rolled down his window so Grover would have fresh air, planning to leave him resting in the cab. It was cool out, and he wouldn’t be long. Grover would be fine.
Will steeled, Grant climbed out of his truck, crossed the road, and headed toward The Second Chance Shop.
He was nearing its eye-catching sign—a nice piece of workmanship, actually—when three rough-looking characters slinked around the corner of the store.
Grant halted in his tracks. Oblivious to—or pointedly ignoring—him, they ambled up the wheelchair access ramp on the far side of the verandah, flat-brimmed ball caps pulled low and baggy clothes worn like disguises.
Was he about to witness a break-in or something?
You could’ve knocked him over with a feather when the shop’s door flew open and he heard—couldn’t see because of the youth blocking the door—the same cheery voice from the shop’s voicemail message.
“Oh good, the muscle is here! I only have a few things for you guys to rearrange for me, and then, believe it or not, we’re done. ”
The hoodie-sporting guys cheered, and one mumbled something about pizza to celebrate. Another laughed. “You’re nothing but stomach, man.”
The woman, still out of view, laughed too—a low, raspy sound. “Pizza can definitely be arranged.”
Suddenly, the dodgy-seeming crew was just a trio of lanky teenagers helping someone out.
Grant was torn between feeling defensive—if they didn’t want to be mistaken for ne’er-do-wells, why dress the part?
—and being ashamed of himself for jumping to the worst conclusions about them just because they were young. When had he become that guy?
Shaking his head—at himself this time, not the irritating Second Chance lady or the misunderstood youths—Grant beat it back to his truck and roared off in an angry belch of diesel exhaust. If she hadn’t opened by next week, he’d bite the bullet and leave a message with his contact information. He had to get a move on things.