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He nods at Carson’s flashy car. “You should’ve warned him, Shel.”
Do I even want to know? For some unholy reason, I ask, “What are you talking about? Warned him about what?”
“An electric car in oil country?” He shrugs.
I turn to see Carson lifting another big suitcase and what looks like a laptop bag out of the trunk of his car. The silvery T-shaped logo announces it’s a Tesla.
A gorgeous ride for sure, and as out of place in Dallas as a zebra would be at a rodeo.
North Earhart Oil made this town and supports every aspect of the community.
“You can’t be serious. I have zero control over what cars guests drive,” I tell Weston. “You, however, should try managing your cute little oinker before somebody gets hurt. Unless you want to be Dallas’ first pig liability case.”
Again, I get that infuriating roll of midnight-blue eyes.
“He was looking for your grandma. Thelma brings him treats most mornings and I’ll bet he was wondering why she’s been MIA lately,” he says.
I purse my lips together. I know there’s a bowl in the kitchen with a laminated note beside it warning what goes in it and what can’t.
I thought it was an allergy thing. I never put anything in there because there weren’t any guests to cook breakfast for this morning.
Gram never mentioned the scraps were for Hercules, but now...I think the note does have an H on the top. It clicks in my head.
“Come on over, Herc.” He softens his voice to mild grump, patting the short, stubby hair covering the pig’s dark back. “We know when we aren’t welcome.”
Holy hell.
Why do I let him get under my skin? Why?
My thoughts flit back to years ago, when he was grinding my gears. We didn’t have this prickly awkwardness between us then, but he was never far as Marty’s partner in crime.
“You knew Marty went to pick up Gram!” I shout after them. “There wouldn’t be any treats for Hercules this morning. You let him out on purpose so you could charge over here and spy on me!”
I don’t care how he tries to deny it. I trust my gut.
Rounding the house with the pig at his side, he wears this smirk that stops me in my tracks.
“Still trying to flatter yourself, Shelly? Isn’t it time you grew up?”
I rush to the corner, my eyes searching the lot to make sure Carson doesn’t hear us fighting.
“Me? That’s rich. Last I checked, there’s only one overgrown kid here, West. And it ain’t me.”
He bursts out laughing—practically inviting steam to shoot out my ears—and keeps on walking.
I stomp a foot on the ground and briefly consider picking up a rock from the flowerbed and pitching it right at his smug turd of a face.
I know.
I know I can’t do that.
Besides landing me in a mess of real trouble, it’d be proving his point.
Spinning around, I march back to the porch, muttering to myself with every step.
I don’t see Carson until the last second. He’s just standing there, waiting, controlled and polite.
He’s a guest. Be nice. Pleasant as you please.
