Page 6 of Grumpy Bear

I stepped forward, rolling my eyes at Austin’s description, and offered my hand across the counter.

Jim took it in his big paw and smiled. “Hey, Luke.”

That’s when I saw the guitar mounted on the wall behind him—a gorgeous Gibson Hummingbird with its immediately recognizable namesake bird in the floral design on the pick guard. Cherry finish with sunburst coloring. Definitely vintage. Damn. That was like a three- or four-thousand-dollar guitar.

A couple of sharp barks broke me out of my reverie. A fat little dog that looked like a corgi and pug mix stood behind Jim, demanding attention.

He twisted around and snapped in mock irritation. “Nobody’s forgotten about you, bitch. Give me a second.” He turned back to me. “Luke, this is my assistant, Karen Walker.”

I choked on a laugh, but seeing Karen Walker’s furious expression, I smiled at her and cooed a hello.

She wasn’t buying it. With a quick sniff and a jingle of tags, she turned and waddled back to her bed in the corner.

Jim shook his head at her. “She’s a horrible excuse for a secretary. Hasn’t done a damn lick of work in seven years.”

We all shared a chuckle, but then Jim’s face fell dramatically. “Honey, I hate to tell you this, but…”

My heart started beating in my throat.

Jim heaved a big sigh and looked between us, wincing. “We’re at full staff this year.”

They were turning me away. Fuck.

“Full?” Austin asked incredulously. “I thought there were always a couple of no-shows.”

Jim shook his head regretfully. “Not this year. Everybody came. We’re at full guest capacity too, like over a holiday weekend.”

“You don’t have room for one more?” Austin whined like a little boy.

“Honey, you’ve got the last bed in the bunkhouse.” Jim turned to me with an earnest expression. “We’d be glad to put you to work. I’m just not sure where we’d put you to bed.” He laughed at his own joke. His laugh was startling—every bit as big as he was—one of those that stopped all the other conversations in a room. “We have a very strict policy about anyone, staff or guests, sleeping in the common areas. You don’t have to sleep on your own or in your own bed, but everybody has to have an official bed assignment somewhere on the property.”

I could tell it was a speech he’d repeated often, but… was that it? Was this the end of the line for me? Sure, I’d been nervous about hearing no, but I hadn’t prepared for it. Now that I was here, I really wanted to stay. I had to think of something.

I pointed in the general direction of the parking lot. “I brought a tent.” So far, I had managed to forestall coming to the reality that I was homeless since I’d had the good fortune of meeting kind strangers who’d invited me to stay with them. But it had only been a matter of time. Before I’d met Austin, I’d been prepared to sleep rough starting last night. Sleeping in a tent in a town the size of Edgewood couldn’t be called anything other than homeless, but camping in a campground was just… camping. People did it on purpose. For fun. “I don’t really have anything you’d call a bed, but I don’t mind tent camping. I mean, it is a campground, right?”

Jim’s eyebrows rose hopefully. “Well, I’ll need to make sure the owner’s okay with it. We do prefer staff to have better accommodations, but if you’re willing…” Jim squinted at me, looking for something in my eyes or my appearance maybe. I wasn’t sure what he was evaluating. “Did Austin explain to you what a work weekend is?”

Austin and I exchanged a look. “I told him all about it,” Austin said.

“Oh, I bet you did.” Jim pursed his lips and gave him some side-eye. “So, we’ll feed you and pay you, and let you camp out, I guess, but I need you to understand this is temporary. After cleanup on Monday, you gotta be out of here. No later than Tuesday at lunch, okay? I can’t promise you anything beyond that.”

The relief made me dizzy. It was like I’d stood up too quickly. “I understand. I only need a few days. I just moved to town. This will be perfect.”

“Now, it is work. It’s mostly manual labor, and no offense”—Jim pointed at the guitar on my back—“it looks like you’re used to being a rock star.”

“Star?” I chuckled nervously. “Not quite. Trust me, playing guitar comes with a lot of supplemental jobs. I’m in pretty good shape.” I cringed at the lame statement.

“Honey, you’re twenty-whatever. Of course you’re in good shape.”

“Twenty-seven. Almost twenty-eight.”

Jim threw his hands up to ward off my presumed protests. “I’m not saying you can’t cut it. I just want to make sure you know what you’re getting into.”

“I understand.”

Jim chewed the inside of his cheek, then once again let out a sigh. He sighed a lot like a big dog.

I held my breath.