I’m not riding anywhere with him.
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’smystupid 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.
