Chicken about Love: A Sweet Southern Romantic Comedy, E-Book

I'm unemployed, recently divorced, and living with my parents. I have nowhere to go but up.

A year ago I was married and living in a wealthy neighborhood in the biggest city in Alabama. That was before my husband left me and I tucked tail and ran home to Mama. Now I’m literally banking my five-year-old daughter’s future on my getting hired as a teller at the local credit union.

I may not have a college education—at least not completely—but beauty pageants, sorority functions, and Junior League events have taught me how to interview like a pro. Too bad I’m stuck driving my daddy’s old Ford with no air-conditioning in the Alabama summer, which is hotter than a jalapeño's armpit.

But that’s the least of my worries after I play chicken with a chicken truck and wreck Big Red.

Between the truck driver’s colorful cussing and the sheriff’s flirtatious questioning, I’m ready to fly the coop any way I can. That’s when Tanner Nash, the biggest prankster in high school, comes out of nowhere and rescues me. He saves me and my interview, winning the role of my new bestie back in Apple Cart.

We have more in common than I ever imagined—especially when it comes to wanting to ward off all the matchmakers in Apple Cart County. A little fake romance seems like the perfect solution to both get what we want.

That is . . . until what I want is him!

Chapter One

Hannah

I’m unemployed, recently divorced, and living with my parents. I have nowhere to go but up. At least, that’s the motto I’ve adopted lately to help me put on a brave face for my daughter.

My stomach buckles as I unplug my flat iron and run another layer of lip gloss across my bottom lip, then smack my mouth. I need to stop. Any more dusty-rose tint on my lips and I may as well apply for a job as a rodeo clown.

I put a hand to my swirling stomach and check my appearance in the mirror. That’ll do. I want to make a good impression, but this is a job interview for the last teller window at Smart Money Credit Union, not an audition for The Bachelor.

Though thanks to my ex-husband, I’ve endured enough drama to win an Emmy.

I puff up my cheeks and exhale a foggy circle into my vanity mirror. Then I step into my heels, grab my purse, and head for the door. My mom offered to take my daughter shopping for school before registering her for kindergarten. I’m hoping moving back here and finding a job will make for a positive change in both our lives.

There’s no way I could afford to keep living in Birmingham without Dalton’s help. And I’d rather lie in the woods and let chiggers eat me alive than depend on him.
I pull my purse over my shoulder and open the front door to my parents’ farmhouse. Skip meets me on the front porch, fluffy tail wagging. I bend down and pet his head.

My mood lifts temporarily at his joyful, slobbery face framed by the morning sun glistening on the fresh dew in the fields. I’ve missed this view. It’s the one thing my high-brow neighborhood in Homewood couldn’t offer. I mean, I could’ve bought a dog. But you can’t buy hayfields in Birmingham.

I lock the door behind me and walk to my car. Thanks to my stay-at-home mom days, I barely have any miles on my Jetta. Which makes it all the more disheartening when I notice that my front tire is flat.

My pulse races as my daddy’s lectures on how to change a flat funnel through my brain. I pop open the trunk and pull up the latch hiding the spare tire. My eyes widen when I stare down at an empty hole. Where’s the tire?

Just great.

Daddy’s at work, my mom is in Tuscaloosa with Taylor, and I haven’t exactly built any new or old relationships in the two weeks I’ve been back. Instead, I’ve laid low with my daughter, applied to the few and far between jobs in town, and tried to steer clear of anyone over fifty not in my family. Small-town folks love to fix up single young adults, and I’ve caught wind that a few grandmas have their eye on me for less-than-eligible bachelors.

My underarms start to perspire from both the summer humidity and my slight panic attack. Think, Hannah.
I check my phone. There’s no time to call someone for a ride—old friend, gossiping granny, out-of-town Uber. As I scan the house nervously, my eyes fall on Daddy’s rusty old Ford parked by his shop.

I slam the trunk of my car shut and bolt toward the truck best I can in my heels. The door creaks when I open it. I squeal as a grasshopper bounces onto my skirt before hitting the ground. After a deep breath, I gain the courage to stick my hand in the ash tray. Sure enough, the keys are still there.

I dust off the vinyl seat and plop my purse down before climbing in myself. With a silent prayer and a jiggle to the ignition, it cranks. I exhale and jerk the stick shift into first gear. Maybe the air will kick on in a minute.

My stomach knots with every inch of gravel I travel, as I pray to God that Big Red doesn’t break down. I scoot forward to unstick my sweaty legs from the seat. By now, I’m sure the air conditioner doesn’t work, so I roll down the windows a few inches.

Some of my hair starts blowing out of the open space, but it’s either have a few messy strands or show up covered head to toe in sweat. I hold my arms out from my sides to hopefully not leave pit stains on my white blouse, then blow a string of tangled hair from my view.
I turn onto the main road into town and shift gears. When I lift my foot off the clutch, I roll my ankle in tiny circles. I don’t mind driving with a clutch, but holding in Big Red’s requires a leg routine fit for Crossfit.

Before I shift gears again, I kick off my heel. Maybe I can stomp the pedal in better flat footed. That would’ve worked, had my shoe not fallen underneath the clutch. I bend down for a second to move it, then jerk my head up when a horn honks.

I’m now on the opposite side of the road, driving head first toward a poultry truck. I spin the oversized steering wheel with all the gusto of the Titanic’s ship captain in an effort to change lanes. Unfortunately, I’m not quick enough, and the bed of my truck clips the front of the chicken truck. I skid across the road and roll over on my side in the ditch.

I release my foot from the gas pedal and thank God that the one thing working on this truck is my seat belt. White bits of fluff swirl down from the sky in front of me. For a brief moment, I think I’m dying. But a strong stench and some irritated clucks prove that what I’d mistaken for angel wings are actually chicken feathers.

The white feathering descends from in front of my windshield, giving way to a crime scene of chickens scampering around the road and a truck driver whose face is redder than today’s heat index.

Uh-oh. I just played chicken with a chicken truck. And I didn’t win.