“No, sit,” Hope said when Justine turned to go out again. “I can get the rest. You have something cold, and I’ll give you the latest Lizzy update when we’ve got everything in.”

“I’ll do just that, and watch my sister put all this away.”

“You always did boss me.”

“You always needed it.”

Amused, Hope left them to it, went out to get the last of the supplies from Carolee’s car.

As she did, a red BMW Roadster pulled into the lot. She didn’t recognize the car—that was new—but she recognized the woman behind the wheel.

Her jaw tightened; her shoulders tensed. She didn’t bother to fake a smile as Sheridan Massey Wickham slid out of the car and onto gorgeous—damn it—Louboutin stiletto sandals.

Her hair fell in such perfect, shiny waves Hope was certain Sheridan had stopped five minutes down the road to freshen it and her makeup. She wore a watercolor-print sheath—Akris, Hope guessed—drop earrings of platinum, and a sparkling wedding set that could have put someone’s eye out.

Just my luck, Hope thought, when I’m sweaty, wearing weed-the-garden clothes and haven’t freshened my lip gloss since I put it on this morning.

Just perfect.

“Sheridan.” She left the greeting at that.

Sheridan whipped off sunglasses, tossed them into her candy pink leather purse. “I’m going to give you one warning, and that’s all you’ll get. Stay away from Jonathan.”

Hope recognized fury when it shot into her face, but couldn’t judge the cause. “I don’t see him anywhere in the vicinity.”

“You’re going to lie to my face now? I know he’s been here, don’t deny it. I know he’s been with you. I know exactly what you’re trying to pull.”

“I don’t intend to lie to your face or behind your back, nor have I got anything worth lying about. You can consider your unnecessary warning received. Now, I’m working, so have a nice drive back.”

“Listen to me, you bitch!” Sheridan grabbed Hope’s arm, clamped her fingers tight. “I know he was here. He stopped for gas. I saw the receipt. I’m not an idiot.”

Yes, Hope thought, jealous types would paw through receipts, emails, search pockets. What a sad way to live.

“You should be talking to him about this. But I’ll tell you he was here, once, earlier this summer to tell me his father wanted to make me an offer to come back to work at the Wickham.”

“You’re a liar, and a slut.”

“I’m neither.” Hope wrenched her arm away.

“If his father wanted you back, I’d know about it. And you’d have jumped at the chance.”

“Obviously you’re wrong on both counts.”