Crazy Rich Rednecks: A Sweet Southern Romantic Comedy, Paperback

I never imagined falling for a small-town
business owner. That would be so cliché . . . if he weren’t also the town’s
only Uber driver, my temporary landlord, and the son of our cookie-baking star.
But he’s the most genuine, caring man I’ve ever met.

Even if he is out on parole from the county jail.

Chapter One

Mackenzie

“Not another Hallmark movie.” I
groan and swipe my hands down my face.

If I have to direct one more sappy
love story between a widower and a bakery owner, I’m changing careers.

“Mack, Hallmark has been your bread
and butter.”

I laugh. The irony in Arnie’s
statement is uncanny. If I had a dime for every baked good on set—both for
props and from craft services—I could retire today. The silver lining is I can
turn down any sweet in a second, since I have constant access to an abundance
of sugar.

“I just need a change from
directing second-chance romance scenes in subzero temperatures.” I slump back
in the zebra-print office chair. The padding is almost as thin as my patience
with low-budget romances.

Arnie sighs and wipes a hand over
his balding head. “How about a reality show?”

“Ha!” I slap the armrest, then rub
my palm. The arms have even less padding. “Have you forgotten who I am?”

Because I haven’t. I’m the same
girl who dreamed of creating difference-making documentaries as a kid. Reality
TV would be the death of me.

“It’s not what you’re thinking.
This is a baking show.”

“Like one of those competitions?”
My stomach sours as I envision a dozen or so people frosting cakes in an
all-white commercial kitchen.

“No. A miniseries focusing on a
woman who makes custom cookies.”

I wrinkle my forehead. A one-woman
cookie show? Now I’m more confused than ever.

Arnie’s gray eyebrows pull
together. As my only agent of ten years and my mom’s friend for much longer
than that, he can read me like the main characters in his favorite movie
script.

“It’s featuring a small-town cookie
baker’s recipes during the holidays. They plan on shooting it this Christmas,
then showing it next year.”

I twist my mouth. “Wait, small-town
cookie baker?” I laugh. “How is that not Hallmark?”

“Because it’s a real woman in a
real small town. Besides, she’s been married almost forty years, so you won’t
have to worry about sappy love stories.”

I squint. Did I say that part out
loud? I don’t think so … which means he really can read me.

“Look, kid, think of her like the
Pioneer Woman of Alabama, except with Christmas cookies.”

“Alabama?” From what I’ve heard,
the state has little more to offer than entertaining football games.

He nods at my puffy coat zipped to
my neck. “You won’t have to worry about any subzero temps there.” Arnie waggles
his eyebrows and grins.

I narrow my gaze on his yellowish
teeth and sigh. Regardless of fair weather, I need more convincing. “How’s the
pay?”

His questioning grin transforms
into a smile. “Now, that’s my girl.” Arnie pulls a contract from his desk
drawer.

I shake my head. He shouldn’t
assume I’ll take it already. However, he has a track record of talking me into
crazy projects. A decade ago, he had me directing commercials for personal
injury lawyers and tampons. At the time, I was desperate for any experience,
and though I hate to admit it, those lawyers paid well.

He promised it would all pay off
one day. Sure enough, several years later, I could name my price with most any
TV movie or after-school special. Now that I’m used to making money, I want to
make a difference.

However, I also want a steady
paycheck, which in this business means not waiting too long between jobs.

Not to mention that I’ve got my mom
and a rescue cat to support. If I could ever convince Mom to stop ordering
random odds and ends from infomercials, I might be able to take a longer break.
Self-rolling garden hoses and spa-grade foot tubs won’t pay for themselves. I
still don’t understand why she thought we needed a garden hose. We have two
potted ferns on an apartment balcony.

“You okay, kiddo?”

I blink and focus on the offer
Arnie put in front of me. “Yeah.” I blink again. If I’m seeing this number
correctly, I’m more than okay. Those network people sure know how to woo a
person.

“How long is filming?”

“A week, maybe a few days more.
They want to chronicle all the events and festivities that revolve around her
holiday baking.”

I blow out a puff of air and
imagine the cliché ice skating rinks and tree lightings. This may be my two
worst nightmares rolled into one—reality TV Hallmark.

Arnie raises his eyebrows as if
waiting on my response. “Unless, of course, you’re reconsidering joining your
mother on that singles’ cruise to Cabo.”

My stomach churns. This is the
problem with having an agent so close to my family. He knows which buttons to
push to make me commit to crazy jobs. He also knows I’d rather direct and star in a romance movie than join
Mom on her holiday excursion.

Ever since I’ve been on my own,
she’s planned some sort of old people’s outing over Christmas. I used to like
that it freed me up to take an extra job. The irony is she continues to plan
these trips even after moving in with me.

And people wonder why I’m not crazy
about Christmas . . .

“So, what do ya say? Christmas in
Dixie?”

Christmas in Dixie. That’s not
something you hear often. I stare out the icy window as snow peppers the
streets. Then I glance down at my dirty boots, soiled with slush from walking
here. “Do they have snow?”

Arnie grins. “Not a lick.”

I take a deep breath and say
something I’m sure I’ll regret until the hefty paycheck clears. “Where do I
sign?”

Earl Ed

“Attention customers, we will be
closing in fifteen minutes.” I turn off the speaker and sigh. Then I clear my
throat loud enough for Liam to hear.

He ignores me, so I do it again.
When he ignores me a second time, I holler, “Liam.”

He jerks upright from slumping over
the counter, where he was eye level to a high school girl’s cleavage. His
cheeks redden when he realizes I caught him ogling our customers—again. That’s
what happens when you hire your little cousin for holiday help as a favor to
your aunt.

Liam doesn’t want to be here no
more than I want to meet with my parole officer. But we all do things to check
off boxes, I suppose. Me to keep a free life. Liam to convince Aunt Robin he’s
actually a responsible adult. Good luck with that.

“Liam, I need you to make sure all
the go-karts are in. The last round ends in five minutes.”

“Okay.” He lifts his chin, then
winks at the girl before heading out the door.

“Ma’am, do you need anything?”

The girl smacks her gum and shrugs.
“I’m just looking over prizes.”

I notice the tickets in her hand
from our arcade games. “How many you got?”

She purses her red lips and re-counts
a long string of tickets. “One seventy-one.”

I stare through the glass, now
smeared with Liam’s pheromones. I’ll make him clean that while I meet with
Bradley. “Looks like candy or fake tattoos.”

She nods. “What kinda tats you
got?”

I open the back of the glass and
pull out a small box of fake tattoos. She picks a pink leopard-print butterfly,
which doesn’t surprise me at all. I pegged her as the type to get a Lisa Frank
tramp stamp. Maybe after trying out this fake one for a week, she’ll change her
mind on the real thing.

She thanks me as I slide it across
the counter. A sense of accomplishment bubbles in me, as if I indirectly saved
someone from making a stupid mistake.

Speaking of stupid mistakes,
Bradley enters. We’re cordial enough for me to call him an acquaintance—and
occasionally a friend. Still, these quarterly meetings remind me of my
stupidest mistake.

No, I’m not sporting a tramp stamp.
More like a permanent stamp on my personal record.

Bradley tips that stupid tan cowboy
hat at the remaining customers making their way toward the door.

“Y’all have a nice night,” I call
as they pass.

Once the last one leaves, he steps
inside. “Earl Ed.”

“Bradley.” I glance at the door.
“Do you mind changing that sign to “Closed”?

He flips the sign on the door
before walking toward me. I circle around the counter and lead him to a booth
by the snack bar. “I can make you up a milkshake or something if you want.”        

“I’m good.” He slides to the edge
of the booth and leans against the wall. “No need in dragging this out. Let’s
get to it.” He clears his throat and taps the table. “Have you taken anything
not yours? Have you been following the rules set for you?”

I shake my head.

Bradley leans forward. “What did
you take?”

“Nothing.” My voice is more
defensive than I mean for it to be, but I’m frustrated by how these questions
are better suited for a preschool teacher to ask a five-year-old. “I’ve been
living by the letter.”

Bradley nods. “I get it. These
meetings seem pointless to me, too.” He folds his hands on the table and stares
at me. “Earl Ed, you’re a good man. You have a good business. But that doesn’t
change the fact that you’re on parole after stealing mail. Silly as it sounds,
that’s a federal offense.”