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I take a deep breath and lean forward again, propping my chin in my hands. The counter is clean and smooth: not sticky, the way some diner counters get. I have the feeling that the server really takes pride in her work. She’s the only one I see working, though I assume there’s a cook or two in the back, but she seems to have everything under control.
I twirl on my seat, taking in the rest of the room. The counter where I’m sitting takes up one side of the room and the other is lined with booths. Every single one is full of people laughing, talking, and sharing stories.
I get the distinct impression that everyone here knows everyone else and that Honeypot is a very tight-knit community. This could be a good thing or a bad thing.
What will that do for my job prospects? Is there any chance I’ll get the position at the ranch? It’s not like I’m the most qualified candidate. I get that. The truth is that I don’t know very much about taking care of animals and I don’t know much about running a ranch. Looking around the diner, it seems like most of the other people here know exactly what it takes to run a ranch.
Almost everyone is wearing jeans or overalls and muddy boots. A couple of people still have cowboy hats on, even though it’s evening and even though they’re indoors. I’ve never seen so many giant belt buckles as I’m seeing right now and if someone walks past me in a gingham dress with twin braids, I won’t be shocked.
“Order up,” the server says, and places a plate of waffles in front of me. She produces two bottles of syrup: one blueberry, one maple. “Pick your pleasure,” she says with a smile.
“Thank you.” My stomach grumbles audibly and I blush, but she just laughs.
“What brings you to Honeypot?” She asks, leaning against the counter. I hesitate, wondering if I should say what’s really brought me to town. What do I have to lose, though? It’s not like everyone isn’t going to figure it out if I get the job. It’s just that when she asks me, I swear the volume of the restaurant has gone down, as if everyone is listening, even though they couldn’t be.
That would be crazy.
“I have a job interview,” I tell her. “Tomorrow, actually.” I choose the blueberry syrup and slather my waffles, then take a tentative bite. Immediately, I groan. “These are so good,” I murmur, and she just laughs.
“Secret recipe,” she says with a little wink. Then she leans forward on the counter, placing her elbow down and her chin in her hand. The gesture reminds me of gossiping with my friends when I was in elementary school. “So what’s the job?” She asks. “You gonna work here with me?” She grins, and I feel immediately at ease.
“This would probably be more fun. Trust me. No, it’s a ranch job. I’ve applied to be an employee at the Blair Ranch. Do you know it?”
Her jaw drops open and for a moment, she’s silent. Then the girl bursts into wild laughter and she giggles.
“Won’t they be in for a treat,” she says. “Oh yes. A big treat indeed.”
“Why’s that?” I ask, not sure what she means.
“Um, they’re three super hot brothers, for one thing. And they’re all delightfully single, for another.”
“Is that so?” I ask. I shove more waffles in my mouth, then sip my water. “Good thing I’m not looking for a boyfriend right now.”
“You might not be looking, hon, but love’s gonna find you and catch you. If you get this job, I guarantee one of them will sweep you off your sweet little feet.”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re exactly their type.”
Chapter 3
Hope
The waitress, whose name is Selena, gives me some advice on where to stay. When I mention that I’m planning on grabbing a room at the motel across the road, she gently suggests I try a nearby bed and breakfast run by one of her aunts. I’m tempted to ask how many relatives she has in town, but I don’t. She’s being gracious, and I don’t want to ruin it by acting nosy. There will be plenty of time for that later.
“It’s cozy,” she says. “I’ll call her right now and tell her to give you the friends-and-family discount.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’m genuinely grateful. I’m not used to people being kind to me, especially strangers. I pay my bill, leave a generous tip, and head back to my car. Selen
a’s directions are precise and soon I’ve turned off Main street onto a little side road.
Cute cottage-style houses line the road, interspersed with the occasional larger Victorian. Finally, I come across a large house that I would describe as a mansion, but that is really a multi-story Victorian house, complete with turrets.
A sign in the front yard reads The Bee’s Knees.
“Welcome to Honeypot,” I murmur, and grab my keys and wallet. I climb the steps to the front porch and lift my hand to knock, but before I can, the door flies open.
“You must be Hope!” A friendly older woman greets me. Her grey hair is up in a bun and she’s wearing a button-down blouse with a comfortable-looking pair of jeans. The first thing that pops into my head is home. She reminds me of my mother. She reminds me of family, of my childhood, and I bite back the tears that threaten to spill over.
