“Cameron is a pain in the ass.”
“Dewey?”
Becky shook her head. “I never know whether or not to take Dewey seriously.”
Ron whistled. “How about Nash? You ever smile like that when Nash calls you?”
“I get your point,” she mumbled. Friends. She needed a friend right now, not anything more.
8
Hudson shook the inspector's hand with relief after meeting all the safety standards aside from his still burnt out trailer. “I'm sure it was a misunderstanding.”
The inspector seemed to agree. “Yes. But we can't take these things too lightly. Nice to work with you. By the way, there was a young lady at the diner who specifically asked if Barry had sent in the report. Is she part of the project in some way?”
“Small towns. She was here when Barry was arrested. Most of the town is aware of what happened. Drive safe.” Hudson waited for them to pull off the property before grabbing his keys and jogging to his truck. His skin felt raw. He'd yet to find anything that could keep his prosthetic from rubbing after a twelve-hour day on his feet.
Thankfully, he wasn't working in Statem in July. But the March day had been warmer than usual.
A quick trip into the bed and breakfast to shower and change his clothes, and he made it to Becky's by seven. The front door stood open, and he paused at the screen door. With her kitchen brightly lit and the smell of pork chops drifting out, Becky Gallagher looked like an average housewife.
That made him smile. Nothing about Becky said average or housewife. She'd marry a man someday, and that thought pissed him off again. The lucky guy better appreciate her.
He knocked on the screen door and let himself in. She turned, her apron red and white checkered with an ugly chicken on the front.
“I was wondering if you were coming. Been trying to keep this food warm without drying it out.”
“I grabbed a shower after the inspector left.” He headed her direction. She straightened from opening the oven door. “Here.” He took two potholders from the drawer and reached for the large dish.
“I might have to keep you around.” Her gaze zeroed in on him as he turned from setting the dish on the table. “You're in pain.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Don't lie to me,” she said. He wanted to, but the truth was, he was in pain. But the pain was relative. He could handle it.
“I'm not going to lie.”
“Did you take anything for it? Do you need some ice?”
“No, I'm fine.”
“You don't have to be all macho with me.”
He crossed his arms, letting his voice rise louder than usual. “I can take care of myself, Becky. I don't need you pointing it out every time you see me limp or wince. It's going to happen. For the rest of my life. I'm not stationary. I exercise. Some days, I have to be on my feet all day.”
She crossed her arms and mimicked his posture, completely unconvinced and unaffected. “Can I at least get you something for it?”
“No. I already took something.”
“Why are you so against talking about it?”
He let out a deep breath. “Because I'd rather not have my disability pointed out every five seconds. My life consists of other things besides my leg. Do you want to talk about your problems every time you turn around? Every time I notice you read something twice? Or every time I see your hesitation before you tell a customer how much their check is?”
Her mouth snapped shut, and her eyes widened. “You see that?”
If they didn't have this “friend” thing between them, he'd kiss her pouting lips and make them both forget about it.
She let her arms drop to her side, the fight draining from her eyes. “Do you mind getting the plates down?” She pointed to a cabinet right above her.