Restless in Carolina Read Online Free

It’s stuck to my windshield.” I hitch a thumb over my shoulder.
    She rolls her eyes. “Honestly!”
    “I have all day.” I fold my arms over my chest.
    She peers beyond me, as if to calculate the likelihood of squeezing past my truck without scraping the guardrail on one side and the chiseled-out mountain on the other. Of course, if she waits long enough, eventually a car will come down the pike and I’ll be forced to move out of the way.
    She huffs. “Fine.”
    As I start to follow her to my truck, I glance through the Caddy’s windshield and catch sight of reflective sunglasses. And a wedge of white teeth.
    Yes, this is a peculiar situation, and I might find humor in it if my feet weren’t blistering, two five-year-olds hadn’t manipulated me into saying
H.E.A.
, and my wedding band wasn’t burning a hole in my bra.
    I hurry after the woman. “You know, if your gum hadn’t landed there, it could have become a deathtrap for some critter that got it caught in its craw.”
    “Uh-huh.” She reaches to my windshield only to snatch her hand back, whip around, and splay that same hand in my approaching face. “Oh. My. Word. Hold it!”
    I do, ensuring her white-tipped fingernails don’t come within a foot of my face. “What?”
    “I know you.”
    I look closer at her. “No, you don’t.” Unless she knows
of me
, what with me being a scandalous Pickwick, more specifically, she of TheGreat Crop Circle Hoax that gained worldwide attention years ago before I exposed my creation for what it was.
    With a satisfied smile, she drops her hand. “You’re Bridget Pickwick—”
    Buchanan.
    “—tree-huggin’, animal-lovin’ prankster.”
    “Your point?”
    “Cotillion.”
    Oh. That. “Yes, that was me.”
    “And your skunk—was it Stripe?”
    I’m surprised she knows his name. But then it was in the Asheville newspaper, along with the headline: “Pickwicks Raise a Stink at Cotillion.” More accurately, Bridget Pickwick, who foiled her mother’s attempts to transform her into a Southern lady by loosing her skunk on the ballroom.
    I reconsider my once-fellow debutante—her wide mouth, narrow nose, and heavily lashed eyes. “I suppose you were there.”
    “I was. Sprained my big toe and tore my new dress in the stampede.”
    “Sorry about that. He was deskunked, you know.”
    “Found that out after the fact.” She narrows her lids. “You haven’t changed much, have you?”
    Not a compliment. “Thankfully, no.” I point at the windshield. “Do you mind?”
    She gives a throaty laugh. “If you ask me, we’re more than even.”
    But—Oh, all right! “Even we are.”
    She sidesteps. “Thank you for the lesson in environmental stewardship. I can’t tell you how it’s impacted me.” She walks past. “Oh, here’s a little something for you.”
    When I turn, she’s holding out a business card. “Wesley Trousdale, Premier Real Estate Agent.” Her smile turns sly. “I have a feelin’ we’ll meet again soon.”
    The Pickwick estate. That’s probably why she’s here all the way from Asheville. The day just gets heavier. “Not likely.” Still, I take the card.
    As she sways back to her car, I peel the gum from my windshield and climb into my truck. After wrapping the sticky offender in an old paper napkin, I press the accelerator with a foot destined for blisters and pull into the right lane. Not unexpectedly, Wesley Trousdale draws alongside. As she accelerates past, I glimpse the sunglassed face of her anonymous client.
    “No, you are not getting your hands on my family’s estate,” I mutter. Though how in the world I’m going to stop him, I haven’t the foggiest.
    Ten minutes later, I halt at the end of my long driveway and lower my forehead to the steering wheel. What a day—my brother married to a female version of himself, that whole
H.E.A
. business, the argument with Bonnie, happy couples all around …
    I tug a dread—a comfort, especially when I’m missing Easton—then