Bitter Truth (Hawthorne Vines #1)

But that doesn’t matter. Not really.

This comes down to trust, and clearly, Memphis doesn’t trust me with shit.

“Memphis,” Wes says tentatively.

My eyes snap to him for the first time where he sits, turned slightly in his seat and facing my brother.

“I wonder if someone with more experience on the serving end of things would do a better job of determining the qualifications of a good server or host,” he continues. His gaze flicks to me briefly before returning to Memphis. “I really think the responsibility should rest with Murphy to handle most of that.”

My body begins to vibrate with frustration.

Now Wes is shoving off responsibility he doesn’t want?

I scoff, my irritation boiling over, and both men look at me in surprise.

“Look, it’s clear that a lot of these plans for the restaurant and how things are going to be organized are still fairly rudimentary and not well thought out,” I say, my words cutting with the intention of wounding my brother. I stand from my chair and shove it back in under the table. “Give me a call once you know what the hell you’re doing.”

I stalk through the restaurant and out the door.

I’m so sick of men who make women feel small, who make me feel small.

I’m so tired of a world where people treat others as disposable.

Where some people are important and others are not.

And I’ve been living in that kind of environment for far too long, feeling the emotional whiplash of someone finding me important or valuable only to then drop me like a hot potato.

The same can be said for Memphis.

When I called him months ago to let him know things in LA were starting to crumble and I was thinking it might be time to come back to Rosewood, he’d fallen all over himself with platitudes about what things would be like if I returned, how I could help him with this new project.

Charcuterie boards and bachelorette parties was the vibe.

All he needed was a pair of hands and a hard work ethic, and even though I’m just a waitress, Memphis has always known that I bust my ass. I may not have a passion for the wine industry, but I’m a hard worker. We all grew up that way, after all.

To show up here now and feel like I’m some charity case, like I have nothing to offer, is absurd. With the already brittle way I’ve been feeling about being home, it’s all a lot more complicated than what I know how to handle mentally and emotionally.

“Murphy.”

I turn at the sound of my name being called, my fists already clenched hard when I spot my brother following me down the path.

What I want to do is turn my back to him and keep walking.

Leave him in the dust. See how it makes him feel.

But I don’t. Instead I just stare out over the horizon, my arms crossed, waiting for him. Who knows? Maybe he’s coming to apologize.

“What the hell, Murph?”

Nope. Definitely not apologizing.

“I can’t believe you just stormed out like that.”

I continue staring out into the distance, trying to cool my frustration before I smack my brother upside the head.

“We have things we need to get done, and I don’t have time for your attitude.”

“My attitude.” I glance over at him. “And what about your attitude?”