Page 10 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

“It’s a rental.”

“Oh.” That detail simmers her down.

I explain that I wasn’t sure what kind of terrain to expect in Hogwash Holler, but leave out that I didn’t imagine a gem like this would exist in such a small town. It’s like meeting myself in a mirror, only she’s far prettier. Not that I’m bad looking.

Honey is witty, gritty, and confident. Capable too. She can be a brat, but she also knows her manners and chooses whether to use them. She doesn’t hold back the sass, but her name is Honey, so there’s sweetness, thoughtfulness, and kindness inside. She knows her strengths and hides her weaknesses. She’d never ask for help but usually doesn’t need it.

We’re basically the same person. Not sure how I feel about that.

I point to the hardware behind her head. “Tell me about that trophy.”

Leveling me with her gaze, she says, “The problem with monster truck drivers is they think they can just plow over anything in their way.”

“Can’t they?”

“Not if they still want a windshield.” Ah, so she’s vengeful too. My kind of woman. The guys back at the station all agree that my attraction to wild women will be my downfall.

“Technically, you don’t need one.”

Her smile is thin. “Slashed tires.”

“Have you seen how thick they are?” I hold out my hands to demonstrate, not quite sure why I’m defending monster truck drivers. I have a fully outfitted Tacoma out west that’s suitedfor off-roading because it helps with my job and recreational activities.

“Brake lines,” she says, the words dropping like a threat.

Undaunted by our little game, I angle the menu in her direction. “I’ll take the flapjacks.”

“Pancakes,” she says.

“Yeah, the flapjacks.”

She shakes her head. “Want me to spell it for you? P-A-N-C-A-K-E-S.”

Molly’s head bobs between us as if she’s soaking in this bit of banter.

“Hotcakes,” I say, waggling my eyebrows at Honey to see how far I can push her. Yeah, I can play that game too.

“They’re called pancakes,” Honey says.

“Not where I’m from.”

“And where’s that?” Molly asks.

But I don’t answer. Instead, I’m in a deadlock with Honey. Our eyes hold, neither of us looking away like we’re in a staring contest, waiting to see the other one flinch, swerve, look away.

But she doesn’t waver.

My gaze magnetizes to her, but those big brown eyes on mine mess with my pulse ... and I lose.

Chapter 3

Two Cowpeas in a Pod

With a huff, I stride into the kitchen. Antoine has the day off today, meaning I’m a full-time cobbler—not a shoemaker or baker of the popular dessert. But if I were ever to change the menu here, I’d add some kind of fruit cobbler served warm a la mode. My mouth practically waters. Most days, I don’t get a break for lunch. But I mean that I’m cobbling together my entire life, including playing cook today.

The experts are wrong. There’s no such thing as work-life balance.

This reminds me, I owe Mollycream brool,as she insists on calling it.

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