Page 8 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

Maybe my blood sugar is low. All I’ve had today is coffee. This place looks good and greasy. I take a wide turn into a parking spot in front of the diner’s plate-glass windows.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a red Porsche approaches from the other direction and makes a sharp turn, nosing into the slot.

Slamming on the brakes, I lift my arms. “What gives?”

The ladder truck engineer in Carson City would envy the available on-street parking here. He wouldn’t even have to bother himself with cars occupying tow-away zones. If this place even has a fire department—which should be at the top of my list of things to look into.

Well, except for this fiery little number. The rental truck is considerably larger than the Porsche Spyder, but the woman with wildflower blonde hair behind the wheel is persistent.

Like we’re in a standoff in a dusty western town, neither one of us backs up.

She glares at me.

I flash a smug smile.

Our front bumpers are almost kissing.

She signals for me to move.

I wink.

I’m not one to pull an ace card, but I do own this town. Technically, the spot is mine.

The door to the Porsche flies open, missing the truck’s front panel by a millimeter. The driver looks up at me with fire in her eyes. I brace myself for impact.

Instead, she leaves the car door hanging open, casts a glare over her shoulder in my direction, and marches into the restaurant.

Leaning back in the seat, I’m stunned at her audacity. Her beauty. But I can’t let myself get distracted. That was aggressively bold.

Maneuvering the truck into a parking space that’s safely away from the Porsche, I do the courtesy of closing the vehicle’s driver’s side door so the battery doesn’t die.

Taking my chances, I enter the Laughing Gator Grille.

The sizzle of bacon comes from beyond the order window behind the long counter. A song about the power of love recorded from before I was born and featured in one of my favorite movies of all time plays on the stereo.

No one fills the tables along the windows. A hefty man sits at the end of the counter, nursing a milkshake. A spindly woman sits on a spinning stool and snaps her gum. A plump woman stands behind the counter. Crudely written with pieces of tape across her apron is the nameMolly.

She leans toward the thin woman and says, “I think that’s him.”

“The hot firefighter?” she asks.

Apparently, newcomers get noticed around here, whereas I’d expect the showdown between the massive truck and the little Porsche would’ve been the talk of the town—unless the driver is Hogwash Holler’s resident untouchable rich girl princess. Suffice it to say I am not a fan. Emberly can take her frilly coffee drinks, her manis, pedis, and shopping addiction on a hike in the swamp.

If the Porsche Princess thinks she’s in charge around here, she has another thing coming.

And here she comes, clocking in at least five foot ten with blonde hair and long legs, wearing a pageant winner smile and red lipstick. Her brown eyes land on me, and her expression falls.

Instead of taking a seat or storming outside to her vehicle, she, too, wears an apron. Only, instead of the cheapo tape job, hers is embroidered with gold thread and saysHoney.

“What can I get you?” she asks as if prepared to reply by telling me to get lost.

Molly whispers, “I’ll add him to my cart. One-click shopping.”

I’m not the only one who heard. Honey has no shortage of sharp looks in her arsenal and fires one at Molly. She mouths,No way.

“I’ll take a coffee and a menu.” Then, as an afterthought, I add, “Please,” along with a smile—sometimes you can’t fight fire with fire.

She drops the ceramic mug on the counter with a thud and the coffee sloshes as she pours it.

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