Page 20 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

“I can’t tell if you’re serious.”

“Oh, I assure you, I am.” Emboldened by my purpose, I stride deeper into the house but then glance over my shoulder.

For a fraction of a second, Honey looks like a lost little girl who’s not eager to take a step further.

I ask, “How about you? What are you doing here?”

“The better question is, why didn’t I ever leave Hogwash?” she mutters.

The chateau consists of high ceilings, pillars, and furnishings with ornate details. It’s part opulent and part gaudy and all French Renaissance style. I imagine antiques of the crystal and gilded gold variety once covered every available surface.

“Looks like a pack of raccoons has been occupying the place.”

Honey replies, “Worse than raccoons. Just about everything that wasn’t nailed down was pilfered.”

I’m not sure what’s worse than raccoons, but we pause in front of the fireplace with a carved wooden and marble mantle. The air is thick with humidity and there’s no need for a fire, but something stokes inside. The same thing messing with my pulse.

Honey looks up at me with her big brown eyes. “My first draft failed and I never got back to writing the story.”

Picking up on her analogy and recalling what Mrs. Halfpenny said about broken hearts, I reply, “I like to think of life as a work in progress.”

She takes a few steps away. “Mostly just work.”

“Is that how you deal with a broken heart?”

Honey gazes toward the window and snorts. “Don’t believe everything Mrs. Halfpenny says or sees, if that robot dog is any indication.”

“I do okay reading people on my own.”

“If you mean that you think I have a broken heart, you’re mistaken. I have a broken life. But a good one. I accept the cards that I was dealt—” Her gaze drifts to the large round table in the corner. “I don’t want pity or help.”

“I wasn’t offering.”

She sniffs as if not expecting me to say that and lengthens her spine.

Recalculating my approach because I’m punch drunk on the bayou breeze and Honey’s scent, I say, “Maybe I wantyourhelp.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “With your revenge plot?”

“Possibly. We’ll see how things unfold.” I lift my shoulder.

Pain splits her expression and then just as quickly disappears. “If you’re looking for me to do anything illegal?—”

I pump my hands. “Whoa. Let’s not get carried away.”

Honey tilts her head as if waiting for me to explain.

The corner of my lip twitches. “To carry this off, I’ll need a steady supply of flapjacks.”

She lets out a frustrated exhale. “You’re a twit, you know that?”

“Nah, I’m a Hugwash Hugger.” I open my arms because despite the way people may perceive me—Leyton says I’m cocky—I recognize when someone needs a hug.

Her nostrils flare.

I wiggle my fingers, indicating she come in close, but she doesn’t budge.

A light flashes through the window—police red, blue, and white.

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