Page 5 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

“I hear he’s hot.” Molly fans herself.

“Handsome in flannel,” Roxanne adds.

Molly trills, “The perfect fall pair.”

“It may be October, but it’s almost seventy-five degrees out.”

“Sixty-eight,” Mr. Soto calls.

I let out an annoyed sigh. I’ve had enough upheaval in my life lately. I don’t need anyone coming to Hogwash, trying to shakethings up. Least of all me. I lost my one shot at love all too soon and now I have other, more important, things to focus on.

Leveling my gaze at the two women, I say, “It’s toohotin this town for guys with flannel shirts.”

“Firemen wear T-shirts too,” Molly says as if she knows this firsthand.

Our volunteer crew consists of men old enough to be her grandfather, including Hank, Dick, and Buck, along with a few of the farm boys who’re just barely eighteen.

“Firefighters sometimes have beards,” Roxanne says as if that suits her best friend’s fancy.

I snip, “But not of the attractive variety. Usually, those guys are also missing teeth.”

“Sawyer has all his, mostly,” Roxanne says.

“Grumpy Smurf,” Molly mumbles in response to my comment.

I’m the only female member of the grouchy old coger club. The prospect of a newcomer waltzing into town, thinking he’s the cock of the walk, rubs me the wrong way. Likely, he’ll have tongues wagging and women distracted, which can only cause problems. I have enough of those.

Worry pinches my mind. It’s probably too late to save the restaurant. I’m hanging on by a shoestring French fry, fending off foreclosure and floods during storm season. My house risks being blown away in a strong wind off the Gulf, which I can’t risk now that I have a baby to take care of.

Rocking back on my heels, my mother was elbow and ankle deep in schemes while pushing me around in a baby buggy, but her sordid past started long before I came along. If that weren’t the case, I’d understand why, in desperation, someone might resort to a life of crime.

Roxanne snaps her gum, jolting me. She asks, “Do you think he’s a Tickle descendent?”

“If so, you’d think he would’ve made his claim by now, but sources say he’s signing the paperwork on Monday,” Molly says.

Roxanne edges toward the door.

“Mug,” I call, gesturing she return it.

She hastily sets it on the counter by the cash register. It’s still full, which is no surprise. Sweet tea is the safer, less rugged option here at the Grille.

The two women exit, heads bent together, as they speak in hushed tones, likely about the supposed handsome firefighter who possibly inherited the Tickle Chateau.

I’ll believe it when I see it.

Heaps of paperwork remind me of adopting Leonie, who is hopefully napping peacefully. My hopscotch childcare situation is a temporary solution and I’ll have to figure out something better, especially because I’d rather be with her than refilling sugar shakers.

It’s the only thing that makes coffee at the Laughing Gator Grille palatable. Not that I sell much of it or much of anything. With a sigh, that needs to change too, otherwise, I might have to start writing my mother in prison and asking for tips—and I don’t mean the kind I’d like customers to leave on the table.

Chapter 2

Pancakes, Flapjacks, Hotcakes

There is no end to the list of things I’d rather be doing right now. It spans from dreaming about being on the sailboat I someday hope to own, eating ribs and watching a game, to sitting in the doctor’s office in a paper gown waiting for ... an exam that only men get when they reach a certain age for cancer detection and prevention.

Unfortunately, I fall into the category of needing a prostate exam early. I’m in my mid-thirties and am seriously avoiding it. I lost my father to the disease and because of this, I qualify for early screening, along with the dire warning that I may never have children. Not that I want them. Kids are needy, whiny, and sticky. At least the ones I’ve been around.

All the same, my mother claims that I’m a miracle baby.

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