Page 9 of The Bitter Heir and the Beauty

“As they say, ‘You catch more flies with honey.’”

With a strong Cajun accent, she asks, “Cream, milk, sugar?”

“No thanks. I drink it black.”

All three sets of eyes are on me. Scratch that. Four. Even the guy at the end of the counter stares.

I shrug. “I like it bitter.”

Honey lets out a laugh that isn’t at all sweet. It’s the sound of a woman who’s been scorned ... or jaded.

As if anticipating that I won’t be able to stomach the stuff, Molly says, “There’s a Coffee Loft across the street.”

Assuming Honey is the head honcho around here, I turn to her. “Sounds like your waitress is suggesting I visit your competition.”

“We’re all one big happy family here in Hogwash—” The end of her sentence dangles with the unspoken suggestion that outsiders aren’t particularly welcome.

Conveniently, the documents in my truck make me the opposite of an outsider. I’m the owner.

“They have amazing jumbo beignet buns,” Molly adds.

Honey not so subtly or delicately stomps on Molly’s foot.

The thin woman at the counter says, “Have you tried the pumpkin-flavor?”

“They keep selling out, but I got one with the coffee-flavored glaze.” Molly all but drools.

As if annoyed by the conversation about the coffee shop, Honey scrubs the counter next to the coffee maker as if it did something to offend her.

Molly clears her throat. “Since you’re new here, everyone orders the pancakes. Honey is the pancake queen. They’re her specialty.”

Her scrubbing pauses as if she considers allowing the compliment to penetrate her armor.

“Let me guess, the secret ingredient is honey,” I say, meeting her big brown eyes. I glimpse something in them—an old wound? Secrets? I can’t quite put my finger on it, but they’re not bitter like the coffee, which I’m enjoying despite the suggestion I add cream and sugar.

Everything about her is sweet except the scowl on her lips—her full red lips—and the way she drives that fast red car.

My gaze flits to a large gold trophy emblazoned with a racecar on the shelf behind her. The engraving readsHoney Hamiltonand the year—about a decade ago.

Her gaze follows mine and her expression hardens. “What do you want?”

“Do you mean in general or from the kitchen? Actually, I want to know why you were about to knuckle up over the parking spot.”

“We know all about guys who drive vehicles like that.” She points out the window.

Molly whips her head around. “We do?”

“Vehicles like what?” I ask, eager to hear what she has to say because I know next to nothing about women who drive red Porsche Spyders, not that I’d admit that fact.

“Monster trucks.”

“Hardly. It’s a Ford F-450.”

“It’s lifted.”

“It has four-wheel drive.”

She snorts. “Obviously.”

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