Be My Swan Page 3

  “Fuck me,” I say out loud, and I immediately cover my mouth with my hand and start shaking my head. Shit! Shit. Shit. Shit. I did not mean to say that out loud. “I’m sorry,” I mumble, and look away, completely embarrassed. I can’t believe I just said that to a stranger.

  To my surprise, the police officer doesn’t get upset, though. He just chuckles.

  “New to the area?” He says, and I nod, but don’t say anything. “Well, do you know why I pulled you over?”

  This is the part where I feign innocence. This is the part where I cry damsel, where I say that I just got out of a bad relationship and I’m trying to get a fresh start. This is the part where I say I didn’t know any better, where I missed the sign.

  Only when he lowers his glasses and I see his deep brown eyes, I know I can’t lie to this cop.

  Something tells me he’ll know whether I’m telling the truth or not.

  Something tells me he doesn’t do lies.

  “I was speeding,” I blurt out, and again, cover my mouth. What is with my bluntness around this guy?

  He nods, and asks for my registration and driver’s license. I hand both over to him, cringing the entire time. He flips over my license and eyes my registration, then he asks me the question I’ve been dreading.

  “And where are you headed, ma’am?”

  I point to the exit that’s just up ahead, number 234.

  “Honeypot,” I say. “I have a job interview tomorrow.”

  “Is that so, miss?” He looks surprised, and I wonder why. I’m guessing not too many new people come to Honeypot. It’s basically in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by dense forests. The last exit was about ten miles back, so I’d say it’s pretty isolated.

  “It’s not full of murderers, is it?” I ask him on a whim, wondering what secrets I’ll discover in the tiny town. “Because if you say it is, I’ll turn right on back around.”

  He chuckles and shakes his head. “No murderers. No need to worry about that. Now, you just hold tight.” He heads back to his car and does something. I sit still, not bothering to play with my phone or pretend to listen to music. I don’t have anyone to text and I doubt I get cell service out here, anyway.

  Lucky for me, dating Jacob really ruined my friendships, so I don’t have anyone to care that I’m gone. There’s no one to miss me, no one to call. Everyone hated him and when I was with him, I became this unrecognizable bitch. It was my own fault, but the truth still hurts.

  Finally, the officer returns and gives me a ticket. He looks at me, all business, and tells me to slow down.

  “Yeah,” I say, taking it glumly. I shove it in my glove compartment, along with my registration. My license goes back in my wallet. “I’ll do that.”

  “Best of luck in Honeypot,” he says, trying to be friendly. I can tell he’s the kind of cop who takes pride in his work, who doesn’t give out tickets just to be mean. Still, it’s annoying he chose me to target for his ticket-writing today.

  “Yeah. Thanks. I hear the Blair Ranch is beautiful,” I say, trying my best to stay calm. Don’t cry, Hope. Don’t think about how much this ticket is going to cost you, Hope. “Hopefully it’ll be everything it’s rumored to be.”

  “The Blair Ranch?” He cocks his head, suddenly interested. His body is turned, like he’s going to walk back to his car, but he pauses, waiting to hear more.

  “Yeah, I have an interview there tomorrow,” I say. I try not to meet his eyes. Those dark brown, beautiful, gorgeous, could-get-lost-in-them eyes are just too much. This guy must be drowning in pussy because he’s seriously hot. “I’m hoping I’ll get it,” I add, motioning toward the back of my car. “Obviously.”

  He looks in the backseat, seemingly noticing the boxes for the first time.

  “Is that so?” He says. I can’t tell if he’s curious, amused, or annoyed. This guy is completely unreadable to me, which is fine. I’m not looking for a relationship. I’m only looking for a job and possibly a new vibrator if this town has a sex store, which I’m guessing it doesn’t, based on its current population size.

  “Yeah, well, who knows how many people they interviewed?” I shrug. I really shouldn’t get my hopes up. “But the guy wanted to see me in person, so I guess that’s good, right?”

  Why the hell am I talking so much? This poor cop doesn’t need to hear my life story or how nervous I am about the interview.

  “Do you know Mr. Blair?” I ask. I’ve only ever talked with the guy through email. He could be a cranky old codger for all I know.

  The cop nods. “I know him,” he says. “Wyatt is a good man.”

  “No, my interview isn’t with Wyatt. It’s with Carter,” I say, remembering the unique name. Carter Blair. I wonder what Carter is like. Maybe he’ll be one of those friendly old guys who wants to tell me stories about the war or who just wants someone to read him the newspaper at breakfast. There’s always the chance he’ll be an asshole, old and crabby, but I’m trying to keep my hopes up as much as possible.

  The cop laughs, and I look back up, meeting his eyes that time.

  “Trust me,” he says. “You might be meeting with Carter, but Wyatt is the one you need to impress.”

  “Any tips?” I ask him hopefully. Suddenly, getting a ticket doesn’t seem like the worst possible thing to happen to me today. Maybe the cop has some great insight I can use to ace my interview.

  “Don’t put up with his crap,” the officer says. He doesn’t even have to think about it. “Stand your ground with him no matter what he says.”

  “I thought I was supposed to kiss my new boss’ ass,” I tell him. “Isn’t that the secret to getting hired?”

  “Not with the Blair brothers,” he tells me. “With them, you need to be firm. Show them they can’t boss you around. And a low-cut shirt won’t hurt. Have a good day, miss.” He tips his hat and leaves.

  My jaw is on the floor, but for the first time this entire trip, I can see myself actually landing this job.

  Be firm?

  I can do that.

  Don’t let them boss me around?

  I can do that.

  Wear a low-cut shirt?

  I can definitely do that.

  Honeypot, here I come.

  Chapter 2

  Hope

  There’s a tiny motel just off the exit. It looks questionable at best. The blinking Vacancy sign is missing a few letters and the outside of the building has seen better days. The entire parking lot is dark, although the lights are on in the motel. While I consider myself to be a go-getter, I’m not an idiot.

  The last place I want to stay is a murder motel.

  Honeypot is actually a few miles down the road, so I decide to see if I can find a place in town to stay. It’s past supper time and my body has seemingly forgotten I just had that burger a couple of hours ago. I’m starving. I drive quickly down the road, following the signs for Honeypot, but I’m careful to obey the exact speed limit. There’s no need for repeat mistakes.

  Not tonight.

  When I finally see the lights at the edge of town, they’re overshadowed by the neon glow of a diner. Finally: some real food. I park my car and hop out, stretching my arms over my head as I look around.

  From the parking lot, I can spot another tiny motel, a church, and a supermarket. There are quite a few trees and the whole town has this 50s-style feel to it. Who knows what else is in this tiny place? If my interview goes poorly tomorrow, I’ll have plenty of time to explore. Maybe there will be a bookstore or library I can hang out in.

  Ugh. The interview.

  I shouldn’t be as nervous as I am. My work history is pretty strong and all of my references are excellent. My resume is glowing and if there’s one question this guy is going to ask me, it’s probably why I bothered applying for a job in the country if my degree is in English Literature.

  My stomach growls, drawing me back to the present, and I turn back to the diner. The parking lot is fairly full, but I’m hoping there will be a seat left. Th
e door jingles when I push it open and I hear laughter and joking and voices. A jukebox is playing in the corner.

  When I step inside, the diner goes completely silent. Aside from the music, everyone stops talking and just looks at me. My mouth goes dry. Did I interrupt a private event? That would be just my luck, wouldn’t it? First a ticket: now crashing a party. What was I going to do next? Steal candy from a baby?

  My eyes roam the room as I lick my lips, wondering what to say or do. There must be 20 different people staring at me. No one looks mean or angry. They just seem curious, like they weren’t expecting an out-of-towner.

  Like they weren’t expecting me.

  Suddenly a friendly looking young woman appears from the back and waves her hand at the diners.

  “Carry on, folks,” she says. “Let’s not be rude.” As if nothing had happened, the room grows loud once more and everyone turns back to what they were doing. How did she do that? This woman is pure magic: that much is for certain.

  “Um, hi,” I say, turning to her, and she smiles.

  “Can I help you, honey? You want something to eat, or do you just need directions?”

  “Food would be good,” I manage to say, and she motions for me to take a seat at the counter. I slip onto the metal barstool. It’s got a red vinyl cushion on the top that’s seen better days, but I love the vibe of the restaurant. It’s completely classic.

  The woman appears on the other side of the counter with a glass of water and a menu.

  “Take your time deciding,” she says. “Just let me know when you’re ready.” Her ponytail bounces as she walks away and I’m immediately put at ease. Something about this woman feels comfortable and homey. She reminds me of a big sister or a really fun babysitter. If she were older, she’d remind me of a super-cool aunt, but she can’t be more than a few years older than me.

  She grabs a coffee pot and begins making her way throughout the diner, refilling mugs and chatting with customers. How long has she worked here? She seems to know her way around the place. When the woman moves, she glides. She can’t be more than 30, I imagine. She’s cute and curvy and seems really friendly.

  Maybe Honeypot won’t be so bad after all.

  A few minutes later, I’m ready to order, and when she catches my eye from across the room, I nod to let her know I’m all set.

  “What’ll it be, darling?” She says, and I’m reminded of every movie I’ve ever seen where the sweet diner waitress is secretly a single mother who works really hard and manages to fall in love. I like this girl already. No matter what her story is or what secrets she might be hiding, I hope she gets her happy ending.

  “Is it too late for waffles?” I ask, but she just chuckles.

  “It’s never too late for waffles, hon.” She takes my menu and laughs again, pointing at a nearby table where four bearded men are eating stacks of waffles. They look over at us, but I quickly turn away, blushing.

  “It’ll be just a few minutes,” she says kindly, and disappears into the back.

  I try not to fidget as I wait, but I’m suddenly very aware of the fact that I’m in a strange place by myself. Not for the first time, I’m wondering if this was a bad idea. It wasn’t, I tell myself. It isn’t. I have to do this for myself.

  I have to prove I’m better than my past.

  Casually glancing around, I take in the records hanging on the wall and the black-and-white pictures. Some of them are kind of weird. Most of them look like a younger version of Honeypot. Maybe that’s what the town looked like long ago. Everyone looks happy and swank. Seriously. These people dress nicely.

  There’s a painting on one wall that stands out simply because it’s a painting. It features a man with wings and a young woman with long brown hair. She’s looking up at the man and smiling like he’s her entire world.

  For just a second, my heart threatens to crack a little more, but I fight back the sadness. I can’t let this get to me today. Not today. Right now, I have a lot to worry about. The last thing I need to do is focus on love. The past may have hurt me, but I won’t let it keep me down. I won’t let it hold me back.

  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 bei
ng 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. Selena’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.

  “The one and only,” I answer cheerfully, and the woman ushers me inside. We’re in a spacious foyer with a large staircase that takes up most of the area. To the right is a sitting room and to the left is the dining area.

  “Come on in,” she points to the sitting room. “Let’s talk rooms.”

  I take a seat on a comfortable blue sofa and lean back.

  “Lovely place,” I comment. “I bet you have a lot of fun here.” One side of the room has a bunch of instruments, including a piano and a guitar.

  “Oh, some of the guests like to get a bit noisy sometimes. Don’t worry, though. I only let them play on the weekends. Nothing you need to feel concerned about. I know my guests need their beauty sleep and that’s my first priority.”