Page 2 of The Spite Date (Small Town Sisterhood #1)

WELCOME TO ATHENA’S REST. MAYBE.

Simon Luckwood, aka a British actor and single dad who has no idea an apology is about to turn his world upside down

Well, this is awkward.

One minute, I’ve stopped short in utter delight at the sight of a food truck parked at the end of this street of shops in Athena’s Rest, New York, thinking I’d like to finish my errands with a burger from this unique establishment, and the next, my security man is telling me that I had the owner arrested for trespassing at my estate while I was in the shower this morning.

“Was he on foot, or did he arrive by burger bus?” I inquire of Pinky.

Pinky growls low in his throat as he boxes me in between a building and a potted plant at the end of the street. His head is down over his phone, undoubtedly texting someone for an explanation.

He’s a broad Scottish fellow who has the least patience of the three security men that the studio has insisted trail me and my boys since the unexpected breakout success of one of my television shows.

“ She claimed you booked a party,” Pinky tells me.

I peer through the bush at the food van.

Bus. The food bus .

Much larger than the food vans back in London or the food carts in New York City.

It’s an actual school bus, painted with hamburgers stacked on their sides, a little pickle over the back wheel well, and above the window cut out for service, Best Burger Bus is spelled out and adorned with flowers that have hamburgers in the center.

“I didn’t book a party, though were I to, I would certainly entertain the idea of having it catered by a burger bus. How adorably charming.”

He stares at me.

And as I stare back, I have a bloody good idea what the man’s thinking.

“You book a party and not tell us, boss?” he asks.

Rather than answering, I pull my own phone from my trousers pocket.

Heat is gathering on my neck. “You say you— we had her arrested?”

“She hacked the gate code. Got all the way to the front door.”

I flip open my bank app and begin scrolling, though it’s unnecessary to scroll far.

The day is quite warm, but not warm enough to justify the increasing heat at the base of my neck.

Fraud report—credit issued is the first entry on the list of charges.

With the vendor reported to be Best Burger Bus.

I clear my throat and continue scrolling.

“Do you recall when I misplaced my phone for a full day last weekend?” I say to Pinky.

He grunts.

I check the date as I come across the original charge to the Best Burger Bus, and I discover I’m lacking the correct word.

What, exactly, is more awkward than regular awkward?

A voice distracts me from my own embarrassment at the trouble I suspect my children have caused, and I turn to watch the burger bus again.

A brown-haired woman is leaning out of the service window and having a lively discussion with a police officer.

“You’re over the line, Bea,” the policeman is saying.

I squint closer behind my sunglasses at her.

“Is that her?” I murmur to Pinky.

“Yes.”

She smirks at the officer, showing off her dimples. “Measure again and use your glasses this time. I can park this thing on a dime.”

“You just got it a month ago.”

“Yeah, and I got my bus driver’s license when Griff started high school. Been doing this for years. Want to see me spin it in a donut?”

“Chief didn’t approve that.”

“But he did approve me selling my fish here this afternoon.” She hands him a piece of paper. “See? Authorization directly from him, right here. You can keep it. I made copies. Had a feeling I’d need a lot of them.”

“ It’s over the line .”

“It doesn’t look over the line to me,” a tattooed brunette standing next to the officer says.

She shakes her head, and?—

No, not brunette.

Her short, straight hair has layers of blue and green in it that are only noticeable when the sun catches it right.

“Daphne has excellent vision,” Bea says. “Do you want me to call the chief for a tiebreaking vote? I’m sure he’d love to hear another of his officers is harassing me today.”

The uniformed gentleman winces.

Truly, I wince too.

This woman—Bea—she’s had a dreadful day.

Because of me.

“I believe I owe this woman an apology,” I say to Pinky.

“Bad idea, boss.”

That’s been the answer since In the Weeds became an accidental runaway success two years ago, propelling me into the international spotlight for the first time in my otherwise lackluster career.

Don’t apologize. Don’t admit to wrongdoing. Don’t give anyone an opportunity to sue you when people know you have money.

Excellent advice, truly.

And I intend to ignore it.

I open my mouth to say as much but become distracted by a blond-haired chap who dashes out of the establishment on the corner. “She can’t park that here,” he says to the policeman. “She needs a permit. No permits given today.”

“Chief okayed it,” the policeman says.

The blond man folds his arms and stares at the police officer.

The police officer shrugs and repeats himself. “Chief okayed it. You got a problem with her, take it up with her. I can’t make her move.”

It’s wrong to huddle behind this potted plant and watch this unfold, but I still find myself opening my note-taking app on my phone.

After months of not having any inspiration for a comedy series I’m contractually obligated to provide to the studio that made me famous, I’m feeling a whiff of creativity coming on.

Could be the warm, late afternoon summer air.

Could be the charming little road beyond the burger bus called Secret Alley, which is lined with quaint one- and two-story shops that seem to have come from a different time and where I just located my favorite brand of tea, much to my surprise.

Or it could be that this burger bus woman is utterly fascinating.

She has good energy.

Pluck, as they say.

Despite my own deep feelings of guilt for what I’ve put her through, I’m rather enjoying watching this.

Pinky audibly sighs. “We should go, boss.”

“Shh.”

The blond man is squaring up to talk to Bea.

“I know why you’re doing this, and you need to stop stalking me.”

Daphne—the woman with the multi-colored hair—chortles out a laugh.

Bea leans further out the window. “I’m not stalking you, Jake. I’m annoying you.”

Good line. Well done.

“Annoy me somewhere else,” Jake snaps.

“Oh, you think I can just wave a magic wand and make somewhere else a better spot for customer traffic? I would love for the best spot in town to not be outside your father’s office.

Here’s an idea. How about he moves? The Secret Alley could do so much better than an ambulance chaser’s propaganda at the entrance.

Don’t you have extra office space in the building you stole from me? ”

“ I did not steal it .”

Daphne coughs liar .

Despite my own embarrassment at my boys’ behavior and the situation they put this woman into, I can’t stop smiling.

Bea, it appears, can’t either, though her smile is harder than her friend’s.

She tucks a lock of curly brown hair behind her ear and props her elbows on the windowsill. “Yes, and your brother didn’t arrest me for the pure fun of it this morning. I could sue the police department. That would look great on his record.”

“I have a friend in the city who needs pro bono cases,” Daphne pipes up.

“And helping a down-on-her-luck woman who hasn’t caught a break since she had to quit college to raise her brothers after their parents tragically died is great optics.

For my friend. Clearly, not for your brother.

Or for Bea, but that’s exactly why everyone would take her side over yours. She’s sympathetic. You’re an ass.”

Good lord.

This was a terrible woman to have accidentally arrested.

I hope she’s a fan of In the Weeds.

“Can you tell her to shut up and give us some privacy?” Jake says to Bea.

Bea snorts. “For you? No. Daphne. Get closer and keep talking.”

“Like this close?” Daphne steps closer to Jake.

“Closer would be better. He hates when you’re in his bubble.”

“Ew. He smells like sulfur and pickles. But fine. Fine . Is this close enough?”

Jake stumbles back and almost trips on the curb. “I’m calling the chief.”

“Have at it, you big stud.” Bea makes a low, growling cat purr that takes both me and my cock by surprise. “You know how much I love it when you tattle to Daddy.”

Daphne snorts again.

Jake growls and charges back into the shop he emerged from moments ago.

I adjust my trousers, then go back to typing notes to myself.

I’d prefer to use dictation, but I am on a street, making notes about the woman arrested on the order of my proxies this morning, likely to be spotted by any number of the people also strolling by or pausing to watch, and I don’t need to speak out loud to draw attention to myself.

Not many Brits around.

I stand out by virtue of my accent, never mind my fame.

Still getting used to it, to be honest.

While it’s thrilling to be asked for pictures, and going out in disguise is an amusing kind of fun, there are a few downsides.

Such as needing security.

And the way that they’re terrifying.

Don’t misunderstand—Tank, Butch, and Pinky are good at their jobs—but also terrifying.

Three security specialists are perhaps overkill, but then, the studio executives are familiar with my boys, so possibly not overkill after all.

The other biggest downside to fame is regularly being asked what’s next.

I was happily rolling along in the obscurity of barely-not-broke-actor land roughly two years ago when an influencer live streamed herself watching the show that launched to crickets three years before that.

Overnight, I became a household name, and the studio is demanding that I cough up the contracted material for a new show without delay to capitalize on my moment in the spotlight now that we’ve rushed through a second season of In the Weeds .

Far easier said than done to deliver new material though, unfortunately.

Pinky nudges me. “Best get on with it.”

Get on with it .

Right.

Of course.

I pocket my phone, and he and I step out from behind the foliage to approach the burger bus.