Page 26 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

I squint because that sounds an awful lot like a tall tale someone from a small town would tell an outsider. All the same, I keep a better eye on my surroundings—ahem, including Honey. Wouldn’t want either one of us to get lost or separated.

“A hybrid alligator and crocodile that has white hide? Is that even possible?”

“Anything is possible in Hogwash.” She seems unfazed by that fact, the humid air, and the squelchy ground beneath our feet even though she’s wearing wedge sandals with little straps around her ankles that make me wonder about her being a pageant queen. Her legs are long, toned, and tan. She steps lightly and almost seems to glide rather than stomp like she did on the sidewalk earlier.

I’m not sure whether she’s wary of outsiders or if her gaze darting to me and then quickly flitting away means something else. Something I should not be thinking about because Honey made it clear that this isn’t Hugwash ... or Kisswash.

“Should we go back and get the truck?” I ask, concerned for her with the muck underfoot.

She says, “We wouldn’t be able to go much farther than this, anyway.”

We stop in front of a fallen stone portico surrounded by a wrought-iron fence that reminds me of a set of crooked teeth.

“I can’t decide if we’re on the site of ancient ruins from history books or a horror film set,” I say.

Starting forward, she glances over her shoulder, and with a challenge in her voice, she says, “Come on. Unless you’re scared.”

No sooner does she challenge me, than she skids in a slick of mud. Like the gallant fellow I am, I loop my arm around her and use my body to steady her. Face to face, we’re a feather apart. I catch her gaze after she avoided mine for so long outside the restaurant. They shine in the dim light under the trees and clouds. My breath falters and my pulse turns irregular.

After a long beat, Honey presses her palm to my chest. She glances at it and then up at me.

My voice is rough when I say, “I’m not scared of anything. Not even of your lips on mine.”

She jerks back. “Ew. Kiss you? No way. Gross.”

“Why would kissing me be gross?”

“You’re probably all slimy and—” She wiggles her fingers and wrinkles her nose.

“Yeah, well, kissing you would be like getting bitten by an alligator.”

We sound like a pair of bickering children.

She continues into the cemetery, stepping more carefully now. “Have you ever been?”

“Kissed?” I hold back a large tuft of elephant grass, blocking the path, and gesture that she proceeds.

She grunts. “No. Have you ever been bitten by an alligator?” But before I answer, as if still thinking about the prospect of kissing, she says, “Just no. Gross. Worst idea ever.”

A beat passes between us and she fights against having her eyes all over me—instead focusing on the dead air between us.

I say, “But you were thinking about it.”

“Was not. You brought it up. That means you were thinking about it.”

“How could I not? You know you want me.”

“You are so full of yourself.”

I duck under a thick blanket of creeping ivy. “I’m getting Indiana Jones vibes.”

“Watch your step, Short Round.”

“No, way, I’d be Indy. He’s a dude. You’d be the love interest.”

I expect her to turn around and shoot me a glare. Instead, she lets out a robust laugh that scatters a gathering of crows. Her response suggests that love isn’t part of her story these days. Unless there are strings attached.

Instead, she says, “Allons.”

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