Page 56 of The Worst Possible Plan

Unfortunately, the last time my neck was this stiff was when Henry, the douchebag ex, had dumped me over a text.

You’re too much. Life’s too short.

I hated that I couldn’t get those two stupid sentences out of my head.

He hadn’t responded to my last drunken text.

Maybe tonight I’d send him another. You know. Just for shits and giggles.

By the time I pulled on black pants, a fitted black shirt, and comfortable sneakers followed by tying my hair into a ponytail that could generously be described as “functional,” I looked almost like someone who knew what she was doing. If you stood far enough away. And squinted.

Next, I picked up my phone, tapped the diary app and wrote:

Day 3:

Didn’t quit.

Goat still won.

Sheriff remains impossible to read.

Festival starts today.

I considered adding still employed but decided not to tempt fate. Instead, I grabbed Helen’s binder and then paused.

Sheriff Walker’s business card was still tucked safely inside the front pocket. Slightly wrinkled and partially chewed but still perfectly readable despite Bandit’s best efforts to eat it.

I smiled before I could stop myself. Then frowned. “Damn. I’m in serious trouble.” I closed the binder with considerably more determination than necessary. “We are not smiling at business cards.”

That was a slippery slope. Next thing you knew I’d be framing the thing. Or laminating it. Or casually mentioning I happened to know the sheriff whenever anyone asked for directions.

Absolutely not. I still had standards. They might’ve been wobbling a little, but they were technically still standing.

Resolute, I headed downstairs. The inn was quiet, but Dottie was already in the kitchen, by the sound of clanging pots. The smell drifted through the hallway, followed closely by fresh coffee, and suddenly the world seemed marginally less hostile.

“I made breakfast,” she called, marching out of the kitchen barefoot before I even reached one of the tables in the dining room. She somehow balanced a coffee pot in one hand and a loaded breakfast plate in the other with the confidence of a woman who’d been defying gravity since the seventies.

I lowered myself gently into the chair without moving my neck. “I could kiss you.”

Dottie beamed. “I know.”

“I won’t.”

“I know that too,” said Dottie, looking not remotely disappointed.

I flipped a coffee mug onto the table and watched as Dottie poured it full of delicious brown liquid heaven. The white apron across her middle today read: BUTTER FIXES MOST THINGS.

For me, right now, that was coffee.

I winced as I reached out for the mug. Even lifting my arm tugged at the knot in my neck. Great. I grabbed the mug, took a sip, and moaned. “This is so, so good.”

Dottie gave me a knowing smile. “I know that too.” She watched me for a moment. “What’s wrong with you? You look… off.”

I swallowed. “Stiff neck.”

“Ah.” She looked me over. “That’s called stress.”

“No shit.”