Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117357 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 587(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“I’ll get it,” Anthony says, dropping the newspapers on the coffee table on his way to the phone.
I listen to him talk, placing bets in my head for who could be on the other end of the line. He’s not flirting, so it can’t be my publicist. She’s three times his age, but he doesn’t let that stop him.
“Hold on, give me that address again,” Anthony says, snapping his finger at me before he mimes writing something down.
I don’t move a muscle as I arch an eyebrow as if to say, Snap that finger at me again and I’ll break it off.
He rolls his eyes and puts the person on hold so he can grab the pen he tried to throw at me earlier. Once he finishes with the phone call, he picks up the piece of paper and waves it in the air.
“Who was that?” I ask, curiosity winning out.
“A rep from the Olympic committee.”
“Oh yeah?”
“Turns out they finally found somewhere for us to train. Pack your cowboy boots, buddy boy. We’re heading to Texas.”
Chapter Two
Raelynn
Dale’s Diner is filled with gossipmongers. Every spot at the counter is accounted for, and all morning I’ve been running around like my feet are on fire trying to refill coffees and run meals and clear dirty dishes.
“I heard they’ve had big city contractors out there for months, redoing that old ranch,” Jeananne declares with a smug smile like she’s dropping some real titillating bit of information.
“I saw the moving trucks myself,” Doyle swears, leaning forward and raising his voice so the whole diner can hear his confident claims. “A whole line of them drove into town last month. Must have been a dozen carrying in lord knows what.”
“You done, Mable?” I ask, reaching out for her plate.
“Not yet, honey,” she says, shooing me away as she listens to Doyle.
Not one of these people care that my shift is going to end soon. I’ve been breaking my back all morning waiting on them, and if I leave before they do, I can kiss my meager tips goodbye. There isn’t a system in place at Dale’s for sharing tips. In the wise words of my grandmother, You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit.
I leave Mable’s plate where it is and move on down the line, trying to clear what I can. No one wants to vacate their spot and miss out on the conversation taking place.
With a roll of my eyes—hidden, of course (this is the South after all)—I tug the dish towel out of the back of my apron and get back to wiping the counter.
This gossip is nothing new. It’s all anyone in Pine Hill has been talking about for the last few weeks. Our small town, population: too few to count, is hosting the U.S. men’s Olympic basketball team for the next month while they prepare for the Summer Games. No one really knows for sure why they picked Pine Hill, but word is, the team’s head coach bought a piece of land not too far out of town last year and has been building a huge training facility there. A few of the local guys have even been commissioned to work out there, though apparently, they signed some kind of contract promising they wouldn’t blab their mouths about it because it’s all been pretty hush-hush.
“I saw a red Lamborghini speeding down Main yesterday,” Mable tells the group with an admonishing tone. I smile at the way she pronounces the fancy car’s name, stretching it out real good so it takes twice as long for her to say.
Doyle tsks. “There’s no telling what kind of riffraff they’ll attract to town.”
I bite my tongue for the hundredth time this morning. If you ask me, this town could use some “riffraff”. Maybe all that “riffraff” would shut their traps, eat their meals, and leave promptly after giving me big fat tips.
Two plates of food slide through the gap between the counter and the kitchen.
“Order up!”
I drop my towel and take the hot plates quickly, deftly delivering them to a couple by the window. I didn’t recognize them when they first arrived and normally their presence would be the talk of the morning, but with the diner filled to capacity, the old-timers sitting at the counter haven’t even noticed them. The couple is definitely from out of town. Journalists or reporters from the looks of it. They’ve got their laptops out alongside notebooks. They’ve kept their heads bent together, and they only separate when they have to make room on their table for food.
I head back to the counter for a fresh pot of coffee and carry it back to top off their mugs. “Y’all need anything else? Syrup? Ketchup?”
The woman—a skinny brunette wearing a monotone cream outfit—wrinkles her nose at the suggestion of condiments. “This is fine. Thank you.”