Can't Hardly Breathe. Gena Showalter
she planned to fire Holly later today, she needed to stop at Copy Copy to create the perfect flyer for a new hire...
Wanted: Receptionist for the Strawberry Inn.
If you can:
* Speak to strangers
* Answer a phone
* Show up on time
* Type complete sentences
You have the skills we need.
Contact Dorothea Mathis to schedule an interview.
Excellent! Up next, posting the flyers and setting Holly free.
Would Dorothea be met with hugs or insults?
She heaved a sigh. Like she really had to wonder.
* * *
DOROTHEA RETURNED TO the inn and stopped short in the lobby. Her little sis had actually listened to her! Holly rather than Mrs. Hathaway manned the desk. If “manned” was defined as staring at a cell phone and chewing gum. Still, it was progress.
“Good afternoon.” Dorothea approached her sister the way she would approach a wounded animal.
Holly popped a bubble. “Daniel Porter came by to see you.”
The air gushed from her lungs. “What’d he want?”
“He looked tee-icked, but he wouldn’t tell me what the problem was. I bet he’s going to complain about his last stay.”
Or discuss his offer.
Head fogging, she said, “Enough about Daniel. Let’s talk about you.”
“Nope. I’m busy.”
“Too bad.” If it’s broken, fix it. Dorothea braced herself for an onslaught of insults and said, “I met with your teachers today.”
“So? Would you like a medal?”
Ignore. Continue. “I was told you haven’t been turning in your assignments.”
Holly never even glanced up. “That sounds like a me problem.”
Anger sparked. “I’m giving you the rest of the school year off. That means no more working this desk. Now you can devote yourself to your studies.” Good. Her tone remained calm, collected. “You can use your free time to get caught up...and afterward you can have a little fun.”
Holly pressed a button on her phone with enough force to crack the plastic case, ending the game. Her emerald gaze jerked up at last and narrowed. “You’re firing me?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t.”
“I can, and I did.”
“Well, I’m hiring myself back. You aren’t the boss of me.”
“Actually, I am,” Dorothea said with just enough sneer in her voice to shock them both. “Mom gave the inn to me, not you, and my decisions are final. You’re fired, little girl. You’re welcome!”
Holly hurled her phone across the lobby—the phone Dorothea paid for—and leaped to her feet. “You’re being stupid. You need me.”
Was she freaking kidding? “You are lazy, incompetent, destructive and entitled. In what way do I need you?”
Uh, maybe take it down a notch?
No! New Dorothea didn’t take crap.
Holly pointed an accusing finger at her. “You’re just desperate to get rid of me. Admit it!”
“I’m not—”
“You are!” Foot stomp.
Sweet Lord in heaven. Knife fighting with a serial killer would have been easier than arguing with a teenage girl. “I’m desperate to repair our relationship, Halls. I’m desperate to do right by you. I’m desperate—”
“I don’t care!” Once again her sister stomped her foot like a five-year-old child. “You and Mom worked here during your school years. Therefore I will work here during my school years. Got it?”
So much fury trapped inside one little body, her usual antipathy toward Dorothea nowhere to be found. I’m actually...getting to her?
“No,” she said with a shake of her head. “When tradition does more harm than good, it’s time to try something else.”
Holly bristled. “Tradition isn’t the problem. You are. You’re miserable, and you want everyone around you to be miserable, too. I bet that’s why Jazz left you.”
Wow. Low blow. Jazz had been happy with her...at first. And he’d truly seemed to love her. He’d called and texted anytime he was away, just to tell her how much he missed her. When they were together, he’d watched her as if the sight of her gave him great pleasure. If she’d been near, his hands had been on her.
But it had been a trick, only a trick. A long con.
After everything had gone down the toilet, she’d wondered if he’d married her because she’d been the only woman in creation dumb enough to quit school in order to pay his bills. If she’d been a free ride—in more ways than one.
Sure, he still called her at least once a week to talk about Holly and beg Dorothea for a second chance, saying he’d made a mistake, blah, blah, blah, that he missed her more every day, that he’d lost the best thing that had ever happened to him, that he’d only slept with Charity Sparks—his coanchor—because he’d feared she would get him fired if he refused her advances. As if he were a Victorian maiden with a pushy beau. He’d said he needed his job in order to provide for Dorothea and the baby.
If that were true, why had he insisted she continue to work, saving money, rather than return to school?
Truth was, he hadn’t wanted Dorothea to return to school—to become competition. Now he just wanted to keep her on the hook. Well, good luck with that. He’d made her feel like garbage when she was a prize. More than that, his actions had led to the worst day of her life. He meant nothing to her. Less than nothing.
Holly glared at her. “You want to run the inn without me. Fine. Do it. When you fail, and you will, I’ll laugh in your face, not just behind your back. Meanwhile, I’ll be sure to get caught up in my favorite class. Assholeology 101.”
Can’t win. She hadn’t reached her sister at all, had she? Rather than wilt, she forged ahead. “If today is any indication, you’re well on your way to a solid A plus.”
Her sister’s jaw dropped. Dorothea walked away before she said something to further widen the gulf between them.
Once enclosed in her room, she pressed her palm against her rose tattoo and focused on her surroundings—her sanctuary. She’d decorated the space with Grandma Ellie’s antiques: a floral-print couch, a pink velvet settee and a royal blue porcelain side table painted with...of course...roses. Those flowers were the reason she’d named—
Sickness churned deep in her stomach, and she forced her thoughts back to Grandma Ellie, who lived in heaven now; the woman was probably speaking with angels right this very second. You go down there and slap some sense into my former son-in-law. He’s actin’ nuttier than a Porta Potty at a peanut festival. No one treats my grandbabies like that!
Dorothea missed her spunky grandmother with every fiber of her being.
Disheartened—again—she showered and dressed in a clean pair of scrubs; they were made to survive daily washings and vast amounts of bleach. This pair happened to be purple, one of her favorite colors. She swiped her lips with cherry-flavored lip gloss before heading to the storage closet on the bottom floor. Along the way, she anchored her thick mass of curls into a sloppy, wet knot on the crown of her head.
As she cleaned the first block of rooms, music spilling from her iPod and setting the pace, she tried