Cameras. Reporters. A veritable flood of news vans lined the driveway, their satellite dishes pointed skyward like giant robotic vultures. Boom mics bobbed over her daughter’s head, lenses zoomed in.
Jewel grinned. “This is like a big ol’ Christmas present, and I know EXACTLY what I want—Lottie dolls! Lots of ‘em!”
Charlie Grace lunged forward, hauling her daughter off the railing before she took a dive into morning show infamy.
“Jewel Rose, get inside. Right now.”
“What? I was just?—”
“Inside.” Charlie Grace propelled her through the doorway and shut the door firmly. “Rule number one, young lady: Do not air family finances to a horde of hungry reporters. Rule number two: Do not talk to strangers. And rule number three?—”
Jewel folded her arms and frowned. “You’re no fun.”
“Exactly. Now, to your room, Missy. No arguments.”
Satisfied Jewel was corralled, Charlie Grace straightened her shirt and stepped outside, bracing herself for the reporters circling like buzzards over roadkill.
And lucky her—she was today’s special on the menu.
A woman in a too-tight blazer held a microphone aloft. “How does it feel to go from small-town cowgirl to national sensation?”
“No comment,” she said.
“No comment,” to the second, who demanded to know if she had any idea something this rare was on her property.
“No comment,” to all of them as she pushed through, making it clear that no, she would not be answering questions about her financial situation, her overnight success, or what she planned to do with the money.
After what felt like an eternity, the throng seemed to get the hint. She wasn’t open to giving them a story. Never mind all the camera flashes that guaranteed her image would be appearing on the evening broadcasts when all she wanted was for nothing to change.
Finally, the news vans packed up and rolled away. Charlie Grace exhaled, squared her shoulders and stepped back inside. She firmly locked the door behind her.
Her sanctuary.
She took a deep breath and leaned against the kitchen counter, trying to take in everything that had happened. Despite her intentions, the Treasure Pickers show and their finding had made her life a circus.
Her train of thought was cut short by the television blaring from the living room. And there, in full high-definition betrayal, sat the Knit Wit ladies on a morning talk show, nestled together like they were discussing the best way to bind a quilt—only the topic wasn’t quilting. It was her.
“Well, we’ve known Charlie Grace since she was knee-high to a grasshopper,” Dorothy Vaughn declared, adjusting her oversized turquoise necklace. “That girl and her little band of troublemakers—Reva, Lila, Capri—always up to something. Wore the knees out of their jeans climbing trees and chasing boys. And now look at her, all grown up.”
Oma Griffith sniffed, leaning in. “We always said she needed a good man to keep her from working herself into an early grave.” She smacked Betty Dunning’s knee for emphasis. “And wouldn’t you know it? Along comes Nick Thatcher, all the way from Hollywood.”
“That man,” Betty said, fanning herself with the show’s cue cards, “has shoulders broad enough to carry her right over the threshold and then some.”
“And that jawline,” Dorothy added, eyes twinkling. “Like something straight off one of those firefighter calendars.”
Cackling. Giggling. One of them actually snorted.
Charlie Grace let out a strangled groan and lunged for the remote, smacking the power button before they started ranking Nick’s other assets.
Before she had a moment to react further, her phone buzzed. A text from Reva.
“You’d better get on social media. Gibbs has opened a channel and is monetizing your story…told from an insider.”
Charlie Grace dropped her forehead to the counter.
Perfect. Just perfect.
All she ever wanted was a quiet life, a good cup of coffee, and maybe a decent man. Instead, she was one viral post away from needing a disguise at the grocery store.
