My shoulders tense immediately. “And what happens if we can’t come to an agreement?”
There’s a long pause on the other end before Mr. Jenkins’ squeaky voice comes through the speakers. “Listen, why don’t you come down, and I can set up a meeting. I think it would be best if we discussed this in person...”
I look at the check once more before clenching my fists. “Fine. I’ll be down tomorrow.”
I open the door to my apartment and step across the threshold.
“Perfect! Thanks again! Yer granddaddy would want the both of y'all to get along. I’ll see ya tomorrow.”
I hang up the phone without responding. It’s a little rude, but since I was about two seconds from screaming at him, I figure it’s the lesser of two evils.
After closing the door behind me, I knock the back of my head against the solid wood while hating my current predicament. This is bull shit. I can’t miss my appointments for tomorrow. Slater will kill me. But I also won’t be able to invest in the second shop if I can’t get the cash together, which means… shit.
Licking my lips, I pull up a message to Shane.
Me: I won’t be at work tomorrow. Cover for me. I need to deal with a few things in Georgia.
His reply is almost instant.
Shane: Georgia?
Me: Yeah. It seems my grandpa’s pseudo-grandson isn’t playing nice and needs to have a little chat.
Shane: Sounds promising. I’ll cover your shit.
He’s talking about my schedule at the tattoo parlor we work for. It’s like he read my mind, proving, once again, why I call him my best friend.
Me: Thx.
A few minutes later, I collapse onto my bed with plans to pack in the morning.
Apparently, I’m going to Georgia.
Chapter Two
Noah
It’s a seven-hour drive, but I make it in six. I didn’t sleep much because of the anger pulsing through my veins the entire night. It only fuels my lead foot. Pulling into the quaint little town, I can’t help but roll my eyes. I feel like I just stumbled onto the set of Gilmore Girls. And the only reason I’m familiar with the show is because my ex was obsessed with it. I shake my head before turning off the ignition to my beat up truck and stepping outside.
The brisk air is enough to make my breath appear as a cloud of smoke as I take in my surroundings. I pull my leather jacket closer to my chest.
Shit, it’s cold.
Eyeing the building in front of me, I try to refrain from scoffing out loud.
Suddenly, the miniscule number on my paycheck all makes sense.
The bed and breakfast I inherited is obviously falling apart. The lawn is a bit overgrown, the shutters are hanging crookedly, and the door could use a fresh coat of paint.
What the hell is that guy doing all day? Trying to run this place? It looks like he’s running it into the ground.
Stomping up to the porch, I wiggle the door handle but it’s locked. I bang my fist against the creaky door and wait.
And wait.
And wait.
No answer.