Page 29 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

I chuckle.

“Everyone thinks that has something to do with a skunk.”

“You have your doubts.”

“If there was a treasure, trust me, it would’ve been found.”

“You sound confident.”

“More like convicted.”

“In the court of law?”

“Something like that,” she mutters, shivering again.

The next one reads,You can hold me tight but not to cuddle. However, I prefer the muddle minus three especially if there’s a puddle. I cannot sew or sow, but I am the latter and getting fatter.

The final one says,The story is that of the three, one lives in a house made of a tree. The other you could blow over, but not mine even though it’s in a field of clover.

My gaze trails back up the list of riddles and lands on the second one before drifting over to Honey who watches me intently. My pulse trips.

She says, “You inherited this place. Shouldn’t you know its history?”

“Probably better to hear it from a local.” This local, in particular, with her smoky voice, as sweet as honey and as crackly as a campfire.

I tell myself I’m not looking—not at her brown eyes filled with secrets or her full lips covered in promise. Nor am I looking for the treasure, but if I found it, I wouldn’t complain.

Shrouded in the silence of twilight, we make our way back to the truck.

Once inside, I ask, “So what do you think?”

“About the treasure? I say don’t put any stock in false hopes. Foolish ones. They’ve been the doom of many people.”

“Dramatic.”

“I think living a quiet life, a simple one is the best course of action.”

“Says the woman who has a Porsche in her garage.”

She snorts a breath. “It’s more of a carport, er, a tarp strung up between two trees, a broken laundry drying pole, and a broom handle.”

“You should have a car like that in a garage.”

“I’m well aware. As it is, I’m not in possession of a garage. I’m lucky I have a roof.”

“I have a garage.”

She pumps her hand in the air. “Well done. You succeeded at life.”

I gesture over my shoulder toward the chateau. “I have a proposal. Help me fix up the place. You can park your Porsche there and make me flapjacks.”

“I don’t see how that works in my favor. Also, they’re called pancakes.”

I chuckle. Having scrapped the plan that brought me to town this morning, a new one takes an amorphous shape. I’m not sure what it’ll look like in the end, but I want Honey to be partof it. Show her that life isn’t all briars and bramble. I’ll have to reformulate my revenge plot later.

I say, “You have a vision for what it once was.”

“There are old photos on the wall in the town hall. An entire book in the library. More of a scrapbook, but Friends of Hogwash preserved what they could.”

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