“I would totally wish you luck, but I know you don’t need it. Those small-town diners aren’t going to know what hit ’em when you walk through the door,” Peggy said.

“I appreciate the vote of confidence,” I replied, though none of what my sister had said did anything to dull the nerves that bubbled through my belly. “An interview’s an interview though, and—” I cut off to yawn and picked up my mug of coffee from the kitchen counter.

I was already done with this Monday morning. It’d taken ages to fall asleep after Mason had left the night before, simply because I couldn’t get him off my mind. The smell of him on the sheets, his sharp cologne, and the underlying scent of his skin had driven me half-crazy most of the night.

“Was that a yawn?” Peggy asked. “Don’t tell me you didn’t get enough beauty sleep last night. If you weren’t sleeping, then why didn’t you answer my calls?”

This was what I got for having sex with Hotty Doc McNext-Door Pants. A sister who could smell gossip in the air like a shark could smell blood in the water and exhaustion on what was probably the most important day since I’d moved to Stoneport.

“Becky? Answer me.”

“Peg—I—uh, you know I’ve got to go soon, right?”

“Oh ho. Oh. Oh my. Oh yes, you’re hiding something. My sister senses can feel it.”

“Your Spiderman impression is totally off,” I replied and walked from the kitchen through to the dusty living room. I’d already emptied it of our grandparents’ stuff, simply because it’d been old and worn. Now, the empty space was my morning sanctuary. I set the cup of coffee on the mantel and checked my watch. “I’ve got to go in like five minutes, sis. I’ve got a busy day ahead.”

“I know that. Why do you think I’m calling? And my Spiderman is totally on point, thank you very much. Clearly, you haven’t seen the latest Avengers movie—”

“Spoilers!” I yelped.

“Anyway, don’t think you can throw me off the scent so easily. You didn’t answer any of my calls yesterday. You missed our Sunday catch-up, and that’s a crime punishable by family law. You’ve got to have a good reason for it.”

“Nope. I was just busy.”

“With what?” Peggy sniffed on the other end of the line. “That hot doctor guy? Your neighbor. You were busy with him, weren’t you? I’m right. I’m totally right. I can hear it in the way you’re breathing right now. You’re doing that weird nasal huffy thing with your nose.”

“Peg, I’ve got to go.”

“Don’t you dare hang up on me, Rebecca Starr. Don’t you think I won’t just—”

I hit the red button before she could launch into her volley of sisterly threats. I didn’t need this right now. I had to keep my head clear of Doctor Dunn and his abs and the tattoos on his well-formed pecs. Tribal swirls, and an image of a dragon.

Great job, by the way. Not like you’re obsessing over them right now, or anything.

I left my coffee cup on the mantel and trudged through to the entrance hall. I’d hung a mirror over the table there, and I checked my reflection in it, nitpicking over my interview outfit. No more cutoff shorts or camisoles—casual home-wear was out. Today, I’d chosen a sleeveless cotton blouse and a pair of smart tailored pants. Shoot, I’d even slapped on more makeup than just mascara.

I’d likely die of heatstroke by midday, but it’d be worth it if it meant I landed a job as a chef at one of these diners. I lifted my bound and printed resume from the entrance hall table, then slung my handbag over my shoulder and gave myself a nod. “You got this, bitch. Let’s go.”

I hurried out of the house, then turned to lock the door.

A bit of paper flapped in my face as I did. I frowned and pinned it flat to the wood.

You look beautiful today.

I haven’t seen you yet, but I know it’s the damn truth because you’ve looked beautiful every day since I met you.

Just a pick-me-up. Or maybe, a pick-you-up. Badum tsss. That was a drumroll in case that wasn’t clear enough for you.

Stay golden.

Your Secret Admirer.

My heart pounded against the inside of my ribcage. I removed the page from the door, grinning as I read it again, two more times. It had to be from Mason. I hadn’t exactly forged any close relationships with anyone else in the town.

Heck, I hadn’t even met another man, unless I counted Troy, the old carpenter.

“Cute,” I muttered and shook my head, a blush creeping up my throat. Cute and a distraction. I tucked the note into my handbag and took out the little pad and pen I always carried with me, just for fun.

I scribbled something back then hurried to my beat-up VW and chug-chugged down the road to Mason’s house. I slipped the note into his mailbox then hurried back into the car and turned it around, trying but failing to focus on the day ahead and the importance of it.

If I didn’t get a job, at least something to pay electricity bills and basic costs of living, I was pretty much screwed. I still had some savings left to work with for the next little while, but the sooner I could start working—and potentially saving a few bucks on the side—the better. I’d be able to open my bed and breakfast, or even a restaurant.

Twenty minutes later, I pulled up outside the Dirty Rice Diner. The place had a quaint vibe, with lights hanging from the overhang, tables out on the grass in front, and customers already seated on wooden benches, chowing down on the dishes of the day. A specials board leaned up against the side of the building, decrying dishes that made my stomach rumble.

Smothered Pork Chops. Jambalaya. Creole Baked Chicken.

I licked my lips, cut the engine, and mentally prepped myself. It’d be fine. This place looked great and super friendly. The owner would be just as friendly, and I’d charm him or her with my resume.

These nerves? They weren’t me. Or at least the “me” I’d been before the incident. Now, the thought of getting back in a restaurant kitchen gave me the shakes, but it was a fear I had to overcome.

I banged my fist against the steering wheel to pump myself up, and the horn sounded once.

Every customer at the tables outside jumped or spun around to stare at me.

“Great start, Becky.” I slipped out of the car and raised a hand to the diners. “Sorry,” I called out. “My mistake.” Slowly, they returned to their meals, some of them clicking their tongues or shaking their heads.

I grabbed my resume, locked up the car, and walked through the open gate and into the garden, winding my way past tables and delightful smells. If I got the job, I’d totally fit in here. Adding a little personal flair to some of these traditional dishes would be awesome.

Inside, the atmosphere was just as cheerful, with a long countertop at the front and stools sitting in front of it. At the back, an open window granted me a view of the cooks working away in the kitchen. One rang the silver bell and called out, “Order up!”

A woman hurried forward to take the order—a plate of fried chicken—and whisked it past me and out the door.

I strode forward and halted in front of the register, where a woman stood patting away at the keys. She wore her hair big and red, piled in a cone on top of her head, with matching lipstick. Her name tag read Flo.

“Hi,” I said. “I’d like to speak to the owner of this establishment. My name is—”

“Hon, we all already know what your name is.” The voice didn’t come from Flo, who’d only given me a cursory glance, but from a woman sitting at the counter.

“Huh?” I asked, blinking at her.

“We already know what your name is,” she repeated and fluffed her blonde Barbie doll curls. That was what she looked like. Perfect—a Barbie doll in the sense that she was straight up and down, with blonde hair, blue eyes, and in proportion in every way. Apart from her chest—she sported a pair of knockers that would’ve given Dolly Parton a fit of the envies.

“You do.” I glanced between Barbie-lady and Flo. “How?”

“News travels fast around here, isn’t that right, Flo?”

“That’s right.” Flo pushed off from the register and wandered off down the counter, toward the kitchen window.

“Hey, uh—excuse me? Wait a second! I need to speak to the owner.”

“Flo’s the owner,” Barbie said, toying with the end of her straw poking out of a glass of diet soda. “And she’s busy. What do you need help with, Rebecca?”

Creepy as hell, but OK. “I’m afraid that’s between me and Flo. Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?”

“My name?” The blonde tittered and pressed her lips together. She pulled them apart slowly, pouting cherry red. “Well, I’m surprised you of all people don’t know it. It’s not really important, is it? Ha, I guess not.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Look,” the woman said and leaned in, fluttering too-long lashes. “I’m assuming by the way you’re dressed that you’re here for a job, right? Those tailored pants scream cheap office assistant. But this ain’t an office, and nobody needs your help. Save your little resume, trot off, and go do what you do best.”

I blinked at her. “Are all the people in this town mentally deficient?” I asked. “Or is it just you?”

“Oh, you’ve got a mouth on you. No wonder our doctor dearest likes you.”

My insides turned to ice. What the hell? How could anyone possibly know about that? We’d had sex…last night? No, yesterday afternoon, and it wasn’t like we’d done it in the damn town square. Besides, what the hell did it matter what I did in my spare time? “What is this, the Footloose town?” I looked around the place. No one else seemed to care what we spoke about or did—they were too into their food. “Are you about to spring that stiff upper-lipped pastor on me?”

“Look, chick, my point is you’re not welcome here. Not in this diner, at least. Flo doesn’t hire hoes.”

“Wow.” I blinked at her. “Just wow. Anyone ever tell you you should be a rapper?”

“Anyone ever tell you you’re a no-good, gold-digging, home-wrecking ho?”

“I would say touché, but that wasn’t a good comeback,” I replied. I’d had just about enough of this. I’d come in here nervous and wound up verbally lambasted by Louisiana Barbie. “I’m done with you.” I waved over at Flo again. “Excuse me! May I talk to you for a second?” The redhead cast one disdainful look in my direction and shook her head.

“I believe that’s a no,” the blonde said. “That’s a no for now and forever, Becky with the bad hair. Get lost.” She flicked French-manicured nails at me and returned to her drink. Next to her, a tall guy with a slightly crooked nose but a stunning jawline leaned in and whispered something in her ear. Apparently, Louisiana Ken was in attendance too.

“Fuck,” I muttered, under my breath. This was clearly a bust. The nerves were gone, but so was my patience.

I resisted the urge to flip off the rude bar chick and headed for the door instead. I burst out into the sunshine, breathing hard.

Fuck. Double Fuck. Double-stuffed Fuckoreos. Nope, that’s not a thing.

This didn’t matter. There were other restaurants, other diners. I’d pick one of them and speak to the people in charge. I refused to let one bad experience govern the rest of my day.

I strode back to the VW, gripping my resume and staring blindly at my name on the front page.

Rebecca Starr. Unemployed, and, apparently, a doctor’s ho.

I walked out onto the sidewalk, growling under my breath, and rammed straight into a ton of bricks.