Page 23 of The Belle and the Biker

I'm half a second away from asking Harold if he won the lottery, but then I remember I'm Kindler, Gentler Savannah, and I refrain.

I'm also dying to ask Mimi when she and my ex-husband are tying the knot—since I know, he dumped her. But I won't even do that because I am a good person.

"Savannah!" He peers at me through thick glasses that are smeared with thumbprints. "You're not in New York." Yes, along with his poor hygiene and unfortunate appearance, he's also an absolute master at witty repartee.

"Nope, I most certainly am not. I'm right here. Came to visit Aunt Hepzibah." I smile politely, and I do not lob a single sarcastic bombshell.

Then I reach up and gently pat my hair to see if I've grown a halo yet. Okay, there's nothing there, but that probably only happens once you go to heaven. But I have absolutely one million percent earned it.

"You look different." Harold doesn't hide the fact that he's openly checking me out. Yes, we are only distantly related, but it's still creepy as all get out.

"Yes, I've gained weight and returned to my natural hair color."

"How did you even remember what it was?" Mimi crows loudly, and Tiffanee Lee instantly brays a supportive laugh. They're temporarily a united front, fighting against a common threat.

"I didn't, so the hairdresser guessed based on the color of my roots. She did a pretty good job, I'd say."

The two girls stare at each other, temporarily stymied.

That's one of the best ways to defuse a bully—pleasantly agree with them. Don't get defensive, don't try to deny something that's true, and don't apologize. Someone calls you fat? Say, "Yes, and?"

Harold stares straight at my chest and laughs loudly. "When you gained weight, your boobs got bigger. It looks good on you."

Both girls have the good grace to wince—but neither turn and run for their lives. I look at them with concern. Has he hypnotized them? Did he invent a mind-control ray?

I'm going to ignore the boobs comment. Because that is the kind of generous, forgiving woman that I am; also, that counts as a good deed and is definitely going in my book.

"You still working for your uncle?" I ask. Yes, I'm fishing for information to see if he's suddenly come into a windfall; I admit it. I'm trying to be a better person, but I'm also a small-town girl, and trying to deny me gossip is like cutting off my oxygen. And without oxygen, I'd die. How can I make the world a better place if I'm dead?

"Sure, for now." He throws back his head and honks, which is what passes for laughter on his side of the family.

I wince at his breath and involuntarily take a step back. "Oh, you have some new prospects?"

He nods his head like a bobblehead doll. "You could say that."

He's going to play coy, and I can't handle any more of this conversation. Not when I'm standing downwind.

"Well, good luck, whatever your plans are." I nod my head at the girls. "Mimi. Tiffanee Lee. You all stay sweet now."

As I walk off, I feel a twinge. I did miss Bitter End. I miss knowing everybody in town, both friend and foe. I also miss knowing everybody's business—like Harold's. There's some juicy gossip, but I'm going on my first shopping spree in ages, and I plan to enjoy it.

I mosey on over to the Bitter End Boutique, a little brick storefront with a picture window and green awning. It used to be Sassy Fashions, but the owner went along with Chase's rebranding scheme.

It's funny. The residents of Bitter End used to be mortified about their town's name, what with all the butt jokes, but that's the genius of Daisy and Chase. Like me proudly acknowledging my weight and hair color, they made the town and county's former shame a selling point.

Now tourists swarm the shops and the local swamp boat tour business to buy souvenir T-shirts and tote bags that say things like "Check out my Swampy Bottom!" and "I've reached the Bitter End." Yes, the entire county is embracing its identity as a butt joke. But even though it's kind of tacky, it sells like crazy.

I'm at the store's front steps when I hear a loud chortle from behind a knot of Japanese tourists. The tourists amble across the street, revealing the source of the laughter.

"My goodness. That isn't Savannah, is it? I see New York really…agreed with you."

Ugh. It's a friend of my mother's, Lureene Johnstone. Well, a frenemy. My mother doesn't have friends; she has social hostages.

Bouffant-haired Bunny and perpetually tipsy Darla accompany Lureene. They're all members of the Sugar Hill Country Club.

"I'm glad to see you weren't starving." Bunny smirks. "By the way, how is that husband of yours? I saw him last week at the club with just the sweetest young thing on his arm."

"Goodness, you're behind the times if you don't know we're divorced," I say in a bright, cheerful voice. "And how is your husband? I hope his firm starts getting new clients so he can take you shopping for something new." I glance at her dress. "It's better to hand wash if you need your clothes to last longer. That way, the colors don't fade quite so much." My manufactured look of faux concern is so on point I should be on the cover of Southern Bitch Magazine.

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