Batter of Wits (Green Valley Chronicles #22) - Smartypants Romance Page 0,17

Aunt Fran said I could tag along. Honestly, I’m not even sure what this meeting is."

Maxine Barton was silent, clearly taking my measure. The other women eyed me in much the same way, and on my left, I saw Tucker smothering a smile. I slid my foot forward and kicked his shin. He coughed and pushed his chair back, his long ass legs now safely out of reach.

"This is the planning committee for the Green Valley Headless Chicken Festival."

I started to laugh, but not a single person at the table cracked a smile. When I swallowed that down, I quickly glanced at Aunt Fran, who rolled her lips together and shook her head. Not a joke then, okay.

"That's," I said, "that's an interesting festival. Not your usual celebration."

Maxine rapped her clipboard on the table. "'Course it isn't. That's why we made a festival out of it. How many chickens do you know of that lived without a head for a year and fourteen days?"

I blinked. "I-I don't know exactly."

"Come on, Miss Barton," Tucker said with a smile. "You know you want to tell her the story."

Before I could kick at him again, he slid back even farther with a loud screech of his chair legs.

"I think if Miss Buchanan would like to know, she can talk to me about it after the meeting," Maxine chastised him. "Now, why'd your aunt foist a newcomer on our prestigious committee? We’ve been hard at work for six months, and I don’t need some outsider coming in and telling us what to do. You need a job or something, because we don't have money to pay you."

Aunt Fran laid her hand on mine, maybe because my eyes were half the size of my face and my mouth was hanging somewhere around my stomach, which I'd never fill with food again after thinking about a chicken living without a head. "Grace is working on a new project, Maxine."

Miss Barton and her steel-colored eyes did a thorough study of my person, and I fought the urge to hide under the table. "If you need a job, I know Hank Weller is hiring."

"Maxine," someone admonished quietly.

Aunt Fran closed her eyes while Tucker coughed into his hand.

"What?" I asked. "Who's Hank?"

"No one you need to worry about hiring you," Aunt Fran explained. "Because she's not going to be a stripper."

My eyebrows shot up my forehead.

Maxine shrugged. "Don't you get all high and mighty, Francine. If I had legs like hers, I'd work the pole too."

I dropped my forehead into my hands and wished for death. Quick, painless death.

"Can we move on, please," Tucker said in a firm voice.

I held up my camera. “I’m a photographer,” I said. Every eye in the place turned to me. I’d never actually called myself that before, and here, the words were echoing around the huge space. “I’m documenting small-town life. Life in the south. Or I’d like to, at least. It’s different than anything I’m used to, and Aunt Fran thought this would be a good place to start. But in the meantime, yes, I’m looking for something part-time.”

Aunt Fran winked at me. “She’s going to see if they’ll hire her at Donner Bakery since they haven’t replaced Joss yet.”

Someone whispered across the table, another shifted in her metal chair. No one said a word.

It must have been good enough to appease Miss Maxine. “Fine. And what about you, Mr. Haywood? Why are you here instead of your father?”

Tucker held up his hands. “Because he asked me to.”

Maxine harrumphed, but picked up a bright purple pen and scrawled something on the paper clipped to her board. "I guess I can’t argue with that. But I'm putting those looks to use. For both you."

Tucker glanced at me. "What do you mean by that?"

"Do you see any other pretty young things on this committee?" She gestured around the table, where the median age was probably seventy-two. Tucker grimaced. "Exactly. Now we've had lots of requests for a kissing booth, because they raise a ton of money, and guess what?" Her wrinkled hands slapped together like a shot. "You two get to pull it off. I don't care who does the kissing, if it's one or both of you, but that's your job."

My mouth dropped, a furious protestation rising immediately to my lips, but Aunt Fran's hand pressed down, and I read the strength in that grip loud and clear. Keep your mouth shut, Grace Bailey.

It didn’t work. I raised a hand. “A kissing booth?”