Page 6 of The Honeymoon Trap Confessions

“Actually, he was really sweet. He even stuck around with me while we waited for the guy to come fix my window.”

The same golden eagle eyes and crumpled L.L. Bean charm had melted her like an ice cream cone dropped on a hot sidewalk. Rich brown hair trimmed short but long enough to have a smidge fall to his forehead. He was tall, at least six foot, likely more. Two delicious dimples popped when he smiled, and crinkles fanned from the sides of his eyes. Those hadn’t been there all those years ago when she’d crushed on him in Florida.

In her summer internship with that film company, she pretty much did all the jobs that no one else wanted to do and ran errands for the cast and crew. Which, at the time, included William.

One day he disappeared, and she never saw him again… until today.

What the heck was he doing in a small town like Confluence, anyway?

“It’s good he didn’t remember. I can’t be known as Lulu.”

No. Now she was Lucy. She had worked hard to shed her former self. She wouldn’t go back to the girl she had been.

“There is nothing wrong with Lulu. I liked her. I still do.” Katie’s voice went soft. “As I recall, he wasn’t very nice.”

“He just didn’t know I existed.” There was a difference. “If he’s going to be in Confluence, I’ll avoid him.” She didn’t need a reminder of the person she used to be. The person everyone made fun of. “It’ll be best.”

“Or maybe you won’t have to avoid him because he’ll ‘next, please’ himself right out of town,” Katie replied cheerfully.

Gravel crackled against the car’s undercarriage when Lucy turned into the drive. “I’m here.”

A dilapidated sign, white with yellowed edging, announced the neighborhood as Camelot. The o and t were slightly crooked so at first glance it simply read Camel. Instead of a neighborhood, Camelot Estates was series of squat, one-story buildings that had likely been an extended-stay motel, last remodeled in 1963.

“Oh my God, Katie. What have you done?” Lucy asked.

“Just give the place a chance.” The line went dead before Lucy could respond.

No, no, no. Lucy parked the car and climbed out, squinting into the setting sun.

Perhaps being dependent on her parents wasn’t such a bad idea after all? If she’d known this was all she could afford then she might’ve reconsidered handling her living arrangements on her own.

But…no. She could handle this.

An elderly woman emerged from the yellow unit at the end. The woman’s personality and clothing bloomed as colorful as the plastic blue, pink, and purple flowers in the window boxes attached next to each doorway. She reminded Lucy of an exotic bird that had flown too close to a lightning storm. Once beautiful, that was clear. Now she had that look of someone who went through hell and lived to tell about it. Singed around the edges with a few fried circuits.

“You’ll be Lucy, Katie’s friend?” she asked in a sweet-tea Southern accent. Her smile revealed yellowed teeth to match the Camelot sign. “I’m Dixie, your landlady.”

The idea of living in a honest-to-goodness motel triggered a burst of anxiety. The suffocating weight of worry she always carried squeezed tighter. “Is this the house you’re renting me?”

Lucy waved a hand toward the door where Dixie had emerged.

“Oh, golly, no,” Dixie assured her. Lucy let out a breath.

“This is mine. That ’uns yours.” Dixie gestured to the unit next door.

Crap on a croissant.

“Um, Dixie?” She smoothed her skirt with sweaty hands. “This can’t be right. Katie told me the house is, well, a house.”

Dixie’s sweet tea manners soured. “That’s a house if I ever saw one. And the lease is signed, so no backin’ out now. Here’s your key.” Dixie produced a glittering rhinestone Elvis keychain from her worn cardigan.

Lucy swallowed hard and pasted a grin on her face. She struggled for words. “Thank you,” she said finally.

She squeezed the King in her hand as Dixie padded along in front of her.

The thin metal door opened to a room with dark wood paneling, lime green shag carpet, and an orange floral couch. A bouquet of bleach and industrial-strength Mr. Clean pierced the air inside.

Double crap on a croissant. If she clicked her heels together three times, maybe a tornado would whisk her away.

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