Drive Me Wild (Bellamy Creek #1)(6)

“Oh, that pie.” Officer Mitchell sighed and shook his head. “Yeah, that’s an old sign.”

“You mean, there’s no pie?” I asked incredulously. Was that even legal? Surely you couldn’t keep advertising a pie that no longer existed.

“Well, there’s pie,” he said. “But not thee pie. Not the pie from the sign. We haven’t had that pie since Betty Frankel died and took the recipe to her grave.”

“Seriously?”

“Yep.” He shook his head and sighed tragically. “Damn, I miss that pie.”

“Me too,” said Griffin.

Their dark-haired friend who’d gone for the water appeared and handed me a tall Styrofoam cup with a cardboard straw. “Here you go.”

I stared at him for a few seconds, a little in awe of his dark, smoldering eyes and exquisite bone structure. Jeez, what the heck was in the water around here? “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

Grateful, I took a few sips. Then, just in case it was from some mythical Fountain of Beauty, I took a few more.

Griffin pulled his wallet from his pocket. “Hey Moretti, do me one more favor. Can you go settle up my bill? I’ll run over and get the tow truck.”

“Sure.” Moretti took the cash he was offered but stood there a moment longer, looking at me like I might be a ghost.

“What?” I asked, unnerved by the intensity of his stare.

“You’re not Italian, are you?”

“No.”

“Are you even Catholic?”

I shook my head. “Sorry.”

Moretti looked relieved. “I’ll be right back.”

“I’ll go settle up too,” said Officer Mitchell. “Griff, you good here? Soon as I’m done, I’ll stay with her while you go get the tow truck.”

“Okay.”

A tow truck.

Crap.

I was positive that would cost money, although I had no idea how much. The truth was that I’d been raised with every advantage wealth could buy but remained pretty much clueless about what basic things cost.

I had a lot to learn now that I was on my own.

The reality of my situation sank in hard. I sucked down some more water, wishing it was something stronger.

“So, Blair Beaufort. Is someone waiting for you somewhere?” Griffin Dempsey glanced at my dress. “Like . . . at the altar?”

I gave him a funny look. “This isn’t a wedding dress.”

“It’s not?”

“No, it’s my debutante gown.”

He barely hid a smile. “Of course it is.”

“I’m only wearing it now because it didn’t fit in my suitcase.”

“And the crown?”

“It’s a tiara, and it’s my best one. I didn’t want to crush it.”

He adjusted the ball cap on his head and squinted at me, clearly wondering if I was one brick short of a load.

I sighed heavily. “My car is tiny, so my suitcase is small. Not everything fit in it.”

“Why not get a moving van?”

I shrugged. “I don’t have any furniture.”

“You own a ball gown, but not a couch?”

I sat up taller. “This isn’t just a ball gown to me, mister. I wore it on the most special night of my life, okay? I danced in it and felt beautiful. Inspired. Hopeful. Like my life was just beginning. That’s a feeling I need to hold on to, especially now.”

“Why especially now?”

I sniffed and looked away from him. “It’s personal.”

“Okay.”

I fully expected him to press for details and was slightly annoyed when he didn’t. “If you must know, my life circumstances have changed of late, and I no longer possess the resources I once had.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

“My family has fallen upon hard times,” I went on, as if he’d asked for more.

“It happens.”

“My father made some . . . creative accounting decisions, which turned out to be called tax evasion, and now he’s awaiting trial. But he’s not a bad person—he just made some bad choices.”

The poor guy clearly didn’t know what to say, but I couldn’t seem to stop talking (this is a recurring problem I have).

“We had to sell pretty much everything we owned, right down to the furniture, just to cover the back taxes and legal fees. My mother moved back in with my grandmother, who said ‘I told you not to marry a Beaufort’ and offered to set me up with some crusty old tycoon at her country club, but I said no thanks. I’d rather be poor than be someone’s trophy wife.”

“I don’t blame you.”

“Then we had a huge fight, because my family isn’t used to me standing up for myself. They thought I would just do what they told me to do, because I always have. But not this time.” I lifted my chin. “This time, I’m doing what I want.”

“And what’s that?”

“To start over somewhere fresh. I’m going to run my own business.”

“What kind of business?”

“A bakery.”

“A bakery?” Griffin sounded surprised.

“Yes.” I sipped up the last of the ice water. “I’ve always loved to bake, and I’m actually really good at it, but my parents said I wasn’t allowed to go to culinary school.”