Patty tilts the papers toward me.
My hand betrays me.
“Okay,” I concede.
There it is. Old Sadie, reporting for duty.
“Fantastic,” she says brightly as she hands over the papers. “I’ll be up for a couple more hours if you could walk them over so I can get the cruise booked.”
I nod.
Because apparently nodding is another habit I need to learn how to quit.
Then she bats her lashes, and her lips tug into a tight smile. “Oh, and what was Grant Williams doing over here the last three days?”
My pulse putters out.
“He was helping me paint,” I manage to say.
“Hm,” she murmurs before stepping closer to my front door and inhaling deeply as her nostrils flare, confirmation of paint fumes settling in her eyes. “So he was.”
Something akin to irritation starts my pulse back up. I raise a brow but keep my polite smile intact. “Anything else, Patty?”
“So, Milo Carter?” she asks.
I swallow. “What about Milo?”
“Does he know you’re doing things with Grant?”
“We’re notdoing things, Patty. He helped me with a house project.”
“Whatever you say, sweetie. I just hope you know what you’re doing.”
Truth be told, I’ve never had much trouble with Patty. My record of public mistakes and mishaps is so short it barely qualifies as a paragraph. In Dusty Hollow, I’m the girl who brings the correct casserole dish back to the church kitchen and alphabetizes the Bible study sign-up sheet. If I were suddenly running around town having a scandal, I’m fairly certain the water tower would light up like a beacon.
And it’s really irritating that after years of me doing everything right, Patty is standing on my porch acting like she’s finally caught me doingsomething wrong.
I grit my teeth. “Well, I’m supposed to be doing your budget,” I say, forcing a tight smile, “but that’s hard to do when you keep auditing my personal life.”
My own eyes widen as the words leave my lips.
“Sadie Summers! You catch more flies with honey than vinegar.” She places her hand over her heart.
I blink at her. “So are you calling yourself a fly?”
The look of shock on Patty’s face cues me in to the fact that I did, indeed, ask the question out loud.
“Why, I never! This is so unlike you. I’m going to have to talk to your mama.”
“I’m twenty-eight, Patty. Tattling to my mama hardly seems necessary.”
“It’s not tattling, young lady,” Patty says, lifting her chin. “It’s concern.”
She turns to leave but then pauses. “For the record, Grant Williams has always been the kind of man who stays. Just something to think about.”
My jaw drops. Of course Patty would worship staying like it’s the whole gospel. As if staying is the same as choosing.
“See you in a couple hours, sweetie. Thank you,” she says before continuing down the steps and across the street.
