Page 2 of Darlin'

I roll my eyes, yanking the purse from her hands. "Sorry, Momma, let me just call the designer and express your deep,deepsatanic concerns." We make our way outof the room, turning down the hallway toward the exit. "Perhaps his next release will include rainbows, kitties, and housewife Valium."

"Watch your tone, Savannah.” She frowns as we reach the parlor's cafe. "You're not too old for the wooden spoon."

"You wanna spank me, momma?" I ask in a sultry tone, turning to the blushing barista and giving her a wink. "I do love a good spanking. Really puts me in my place, ya know?" I let out a yelp as my mother pinches my side. God, she's no fun. "Ow!"

"Just order already," she huffs, checking her phone. "Your daddy's waiting for us at home. He wants an early dinner tonight before he heads back out on the campaign trail."

"Mustn't keep the sire waiting," I say under my breath, reading the selection of tasty drinks. "Mmm... I'll get a medium mocha with whipped cream, please."

"She'll have a small latte," Momma pipes up, gaze fixated on her phone as she texts away. "Non-fat."

I flash the barista a tight-lipped smile. "On second thought, I guess I'll have a latte." The barista gives me a sympathetic look before getting to work on my mother-approved beverage. I lean on the bar edge, glowering at my momma as she scrolls through her phone. "You're not ordering anything?"

"You know I don't eat between meals," she says, shoving her phone screen in my face. I blink at Marla Mayweather's professional headshot. "Look at this poor girl. You just know she's got ten pounds of makeup on,and yet you canstillsee the bags underneath her sad little eyes."

"I think she looks good." I shrug, zooming in on her makeup. "I don't see any bags."

"How cordial of you." Momma rolls her eyes. "We need to book an appointment at the studio for some new photographs. The ones you have now are outdated. You've definitely lost a pound or two since those were taken." The barista places my drink on the counter, and before she can say a word, Momma waves her hand. "Charge it to our account. It's under John Kingsley." A proud smile spreads on her smug face. "My husband,John Kingsley. You know him, right? He's running forgovernor?"

"Yes, ma'am." The barista sighs. "How could I not?" She points out the floor-to-ceiling windows of the parlor toward the plethora of my father's campaign posters plastered on telephone poles. "Kind of hard to miss."

"That's the point." Momma winks, pulling a promotional pin out of her pocket and slamming it on the counter. "A vote for John Kingsley is a vote for lower taxes and higher accountability."

"Right." The barista feigns a smile, picking up the pin and twirling it around as she stares at my father's picture. I cringe, looking away. I told him to go with the other photo. This one makes him look like he's running for governor of Kentucky...Fried Chicken, that is. "A man of the people."

"Exactly." Momma beams. "Would you like to hear about his platform?—"

"Alright, that's enough, momma," I say, grabbing herarm. This Hillary Clinton complex is getting out of hand. "Aren't we running late for dinner?"

"I'll be back with pamphlets," Momma says to the barista, waving goodbye as I drag her out of the parlor. Once we're outside, she breaks free of my grip, frowning. "Next time I'm in the middle of canvassing for your daddy, do not interrupt me! He needs to win this race. I've had my sights set on that gorgeous governor's mansion for years now."

"Such wholesome intentions," I sneer as we stroll down the sidewalk. "Might want to keep that little tidbit to yourself."

"Oh, hush child.” She keeps her nose in the air as we pass dozens of artisanal stores. She smiles at everyone. Friendly. Always so freaking friendly. "Now, about the pageant. We've got eight weeks to prepare. I've contacted Jeffery, and he said he's not available for consultation because he's working withMiss Georgia, so there's a tiny conflict of interest." She lets out an airy chuckle. "I'm sure it's nothing a little extra cash can't fix."

"You're going to poach Marla Mayweather's consultant?" I ask as my phone rings, and I reach into my purse. "That's quite unethical." I twist my lips, reading the unfamiliar caller ID on the screen. "What area code is two one three?"

"How would I know?" Momma shrugs, stopping to say hello to the local florist. "Hi, Nancy!"

"How would I know?" I mimic under my breath as I answer the call. Probably spam. "Hello?"

"Hi, I'm looking for a Miss Savannah Kingsley," a deep male voice says. "Is this the correct number?"

"It is..." I draw out, stepping off to the side. "Who might this be?"

"My name's Dylan Moore, and I work at the California office for Calvin Investigations?—"

My eyes bug out of their sockets.No flipping way.I don't want to count my chickens before they hatch, but I haven't heard from my PI in almost a year.

"Calvin Investigations?!" I whisper harshly into the receiver. "You work for Mr. Calvin? Is there an update?" I look over my shoulder, making sure Momma isn't listening. "Did you find him?"

"We did..." Dylan says, a tinge of hesitation in his voice.

Trepidation seizes my spine as I attempt to decipher his tone. "A..." Please, baby Jesus. Please. "Alive?"

"Yes, he's alive, but?—"

"Ah!" I exclaim with deepened relief, and my mother whips her head at me, scowling. "Hold on a second, Mr. Moore." I press the phone against my chest, addressing my mother. "I'll meet you at home, okay?"

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