Tough Nut to Crack (Lindell #4)

Chapter 1

Riley

She threw soup in my face.

How do women like her even exist?

I blink through the sting and stare at her.

Scarlett LeBlanc glares back at me as if she's justified in what she just did.

"You threw soup in my face," I say,my voice low and filled with disbelief.

"That soup is awful," she screeches, her voice pitched high. It drips with disdain and self-importance.

My heart races, and my hands tremble. I spent an extra half hour on my hair this morning. I meticulously applied my makeup to make sure it didn't look like I was trying too hard. Women from the city can spot that sort of thing from miles away. I blame it on the fact that they spend so much time around fake and pretentious people.

Scarlett LeBlanc has a summer home here in Lindell, and I've heard rumors around town that she frequently has parties. The expensive cars coming in and heading down her road are proof enough of that, but no one in town has gotten more than a quick glance of her. She doesn't shop at the local stores, and she certainly wouldn't be caught dead attending one of the town's many festivals.

I was shocked when I got a call from her yesterday saying that she wanted me to cater an event at her house. I could tell by her tone she wasn't exactly happy about having to place the call to me, but I was determined to prove to her that Lindell has more to offer than people who gossip. I know my menu is what she's looking for. I've been told many, many times that it's geared more toward people from the city, not the citizens of Lindell, and although that has always been a point of contention with me, this was supposed to be my shot. If Scarlett was impressed with my food and professionalism, then maybe she'd chat with her friends about it, and my business could really take off the way I've always dreamed .

"What do you have to say for yourself?" she growls, her arms coming up to cross over her chest. Her head is held high, telling me that she doesn't feel an ounce of remorse for what she has done, and I think that surprises me the most.

It's not unheard of for people to do something without thinking, but they usually regret it to some degree. She's righteous in what she did, and I can tell by the way her eyes narrow as she watches me that she'd do it a second time without hesitation.

I swipe a finger down my cheek, grateful that I chose gazpacho instead of a hot soup, considering the amount I'm wearing on my person right now.

I slip the finger into my mouth, feeling a little better when her nose scrunches further.

"It may need a little more cucumber or a hint more of tarragon, but it definitely doesn't taste like cat urine."

She gawks at me as if I'm an alien that just dropped out of the sky and appeared in her kitchen.

She didn't use those words exactly, but as a Southern woman who respects herself, I'm not going to repeat her verbatim.

Her mouth hangs open a half of an inch, and I can tell she's dumbfounded that I'd challenge her in any way.

"I take it you won't be hiring A Taste of Elegance for your event?"

Instead of waiting for an answer I already have, I turn and grab a hand towel from the kit I brought with me. I wipe my face, knowing it's going to take more than a couple of swipes to get myself completely clean. Since the tomato-based soup is dripping from my hair and has soaked through my clothing, that won't be happening here.

"I'll have to admit," I say as I gather the things I brought and start repacking them into my totes. "I never imagined something like this happening to me, especially by someone from the city."

"You can't tell anyone about this," she says, a hint of worry in her tone.

Now? Now she worries?

"You signed a contract."

I turn in her direction, giving her a once-over, and inwardly wonder how often she goes to get Botox injections in her forehead. If she scowls often, like she's scowling at me now, it would have to be very frequent to keep those lines under control .

"I did sign a contract," I say as I go back to getting my things together so I can get out of here before she decides it's fitting to throw something else at me.

I thought the clipboard that she thrust into my hand before she even welcomed me inside her home was weird. Hindsight tells me that I should've been worried then, but I figured she was throwing a surprise party or that I'd be in contact with celebrities, and she wanted to protect their privacy. I also considered it was going to be a type of party that I'd be too embarrassed to speak to others about, but I signed the contract, blaming the books I read on that wayward thought.

Now I realize as I continue to drip soup on her floor and pack my things that she's a little unhinged, and that's what she's protecting.

"You don't have anything to worry about, Ms. LeBlanc. I'd never speak a word of what happened here today."

"I'll sue you," she says, as if I didn't just agree to uphold the contract.

I give her a weak smile as I shoulder the straps to my tote of supplies, my stomach already grumbling at the thought of eating some of the things I made in preparation for today. She may not like the gazpacho, but it's delicious, and I'll eat it for dinner just to spite her.

"Where are you going?" she snaps as I give her a wide berth on my way to her front door. "Aren't you going to clean up your mess?"

Your mess... as if I'm the one who shrieked like a banshee and tossed soup on myself in the middle of her kitchen.

I pull in a deep but jagged breath as I turn back to face her, letting the strap of my reusable tote slip from my shoulder. The clank of the metal bowls I brought with me rings out around us as they settle inside the bag.

"Clean up?" I ask, giving her an opportunity to rethink her stance.

She won't, of course. Women like Scarlett LeBlanc are too self-important and too entitled to consider such things.

"This mess," she says, waving her hand in the direction of the soup splatter on her floor and counter, a clear void in the mess where I was in the perfect position to catch the soup she flung in my direction.

"I didn't make this mess," I say evenly.

"The contract includes a cleanup clause," she snaps.

"Do you think after throwing soup in my face that the contract is still in place?"

Her nose scrunches as if she can't believe I'd have the audacity to challenge her .

"Let's get an unbiased opinion," I say, pulling my phone from the inside pocket of the tote sitting at my feet. "I think Chief Tucker is the perfect person to call."

"You'd call the police for a contract disagreement? I swear this town is full of uneducated, backwoods, hillbil—"

"I'm calling to report the assault. You know, the soup you hit me with? But while he's here taking the report, which undoubtedly would be public record and discussed in the online community group before the end of the day, I can ask him what he thinks about the cleanup clause in your contract."

I don't ever recall another instance when I've seen someone flare their nostrils so wide.

"Get out of my home," she growls.

"But the mess," I remind her.

"Just leave."

"Dust Bunnies offers a fantastic service," I tell her with the best smile I can manage under the current situation.

I grab the strap of my bag and walk past her with my head held as high as I can manage, considering the condition I'm in leaving her house.

My chin is quivering by the time I get my supplies situated in the back seat of my car. I manage to make it to the empty parking lot outside of the old McGee building before the first tear falls.

I know better than to have put so much hope into one meeting, but it's a series of disappointments that run saltily down my cheeks.

The nerve of that woman to think for a second that her behavior is appropriate.

There isn't a single soul in Lindell that would treat her that way. If they didn't love her food, which, let's be honest, wouldn't happen—the food is fantastic—they'd smile in her face and talk trash about it behind her back like civilized folks. The only food that is supposed to be thrown and wasted is the whipped cream pies at several of the local fundraising festivals Lindell holds each year.

After too many tears fall, I'm able to get myself under control enough to get home, but the tears are renewed again once I realize I have to wash my hair more than once to get the soup out of it.