by Sophie Stern
The mattress is the softest one I’ve ever been on and within minutes, I’m fast asleep, dreaming of a world without my stupid problems.
**
When I wake up, I take a quick shower, then blow-dry my hair. I imagine that as soon as I’m out in the hot, sticky air, everything will frizz over, but as of right now, I look great. Quickly, I braid my long blonde locks neatly and spray some hairspray on top. That should keep the frizzles at bay, at least for an hour or two.
Mrs. Marsh was pretty direct about being on time for breakfast, so I grab my purse and scurry downstairs at 7:30. When I reach the bottom of the steps, I take a big, long whiff of the scent that’s wafting from the kitchen.
“Good, right?” A voice says. A man is standing in the doorway and he’s chuckling at my display of hunger. I should be embarrassed, but instead I’m completely scoping him out. Why are there so many sexy men in this town? First the cop and now this guy. Seriously, does Honeypot only produce models? Even the women are freaking gorgeous.
“It smells delicious,” I admit sheepishly. “Although I might be biased since I haven’t eaten since last night.”
“You aren’t biased at all,” the man assures me. “Mrs. Marsh makes the best breakfast in all of Honeypot.”
“Are you a guest here?” I ask him, but the man shakes his head.
“Nope. I’m her son, Sawyer.
“But you called her Mrs. Marsh,” I insist, and Sawyer just grins.
“Well, you know. Everyone else does, so sometimes I slip up. What brings you to town?”
“I have a job interview,” I tell him. “At the Blair Ranch. Do you know it?”
“I know it,” he says, but doesn’t say anything else. Sawyer doesn’t offer me a “good luck” or a “break a leg.” Instead, he jaunts past me, tugging playfully on the end of my hair as he passes, and I’m filled with sudden excitement and nervousness.
Are all the eligible bachelors in Honeypot this bold about touching women? Are they all so confident in their flirting? I think of the cop yesterday who told me wearing a low-cut shirt won’t hurt. While most women would find the comment sexist or inappropriate, it only turns me on.
I haven’t felt sexy in a long time. Jake certainly never made me feel sexy and nobody is going to feel attractive when their man finds someone better. Maybe I’m having post-relationship blues or single girl confidence issues, but Sawyer made me feel young and carefree when he tugged on my braid.
My feet move of their own accord into the dining room, where a buffet table has been set up with biscuits, gravy, hash browns, scrambled eggs, waffles, and sausages. I grab a plate and fill it, then find a seat at an empty table to start digging in.
“Coffee?” Sawyer asks, appearing at my table with a coffee pot.
“I thought you were here for breakfast,” I say.
“Well, Mrs. Marsh puts me to work.”
“You mean Mom.”
“Yes. Mom puts me to work.”
“Coffee would be great,” I say. He pours me a mug, then heads back into what I assume is the kitchen, and I practically devour my food. When I’m finished, I carry my dirty dishes into the kitchen and thank Mrs. Marsh for the breakfast.
“No problem at all, dear,” she says with a wink. “Good luck today with the interview.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, only suddenly I’m feeling very nervous. This really is my one shot at freedom. If I don’t get this job, I’m going to have to move back to Holbrook and live with friends or relatives until I can figure something out. Plus, there would be the entire issue of gas money to get home. I need this job. I need Honeypot.
Maybe moving to a new place to escape a bad situation is a horrible idea, but right now, it’s the best I’ve got.
I have a little bit of time before my interview, so I hop in my car and explore the town a little bit. Honeypot is just as cute and dainty in the daytime as it was at night. There are few cars and few people walking around, but the buildings are all kept up. I pass one house where there are kids playing in the yard and another where a father and son are playing catch.
Memories of my own childhood flash by, but I push those thoughts away. They’re all filled with adventures I shared with Margaret, and that time has passed. I always trusted her with everything, and the truth is that she might not be a bad person. Never did I ever consider her to be bad or naughty or evil, not until I walked in on her with Jacob.
Now it’s hard for me to sort through the pain.
So I want to say that she’s a bad person, but it could just be the trauma talking. She might actually be a nice girl, deep down.
I just don’t know anymore.
And to be honest, I don’t care enough to find out.
My alarm beeps, reminding me that it’s almost time for the interview, so I punch the address into my GPS and turn the car toward the south side of town. It’s time to impress some ranchers.
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