“It’s not gone. It’s in the sunroom. Along with some chairs and a couple of other things you wouldn’t recognize. You don’t care about this house, and you don’t deserve it.”

“Tough. It’s mine. And I want my pig back.”

That stopped her. “Your pig?”

“The pig that was in the kitchen.”

“That ugly pig with the waiter’s apron and the missing ear?”

“The ear isn’t missing. It’s only chipped.”

That stunned her. “You remember the chip in that stupid pig’s ear, but you don’t know what color your couch is?”

“I’m more into the ceramic arts.”

“Panda!” Temple shrieked from upstairs. “Come spot me.”

Viper gazed toward the stairs. “It’s fascinating,” she said, “how well you’ve adapted to being Temple Renshaw’s bitch.”

He stalked toward the hallway. “That pig had better be back where it was the next time I walk in the kitchen, or you’ll never see your food again.”

“Your pig is ugly!” she shouted after him.

“So’s your mother,” he shot back, which made her furious. Not really at him. More at herself. Because she almost laughed.

BREE WAS CLOSING THE FARM stand for the night when the white pickup slowed, then stopped. The lettering across the door read JENSEN’S HERB FARM.

It was nearly dark, and she’d just finished packing up the last of her unsold honey in the cardboard carton she’d propped in the wheelbarrow. She’d been up since before six, trying to finish weeding Myra’s overgrown garden, she’d forgotten to eat again, and she was bone-tired. Still, there were a few good things about today. She’d sold eighteen jars of honey along with some strawberries and asparagus that had survived the neglect. She also almost had a friend, not that she believed someone as famous as Lucy would ever be a real friend, but still, it was nice.

Toby had done his customary disappearing act, but as the truck door opened, he came racing down the drive. “Big Mike!”

She barely avoided dropping the jars as Mike Moody climbed out. After such a grueling day, this was too much. She still couldn’t quite reconcile his current good looks with the fat, acne-faced teenager she remembered. If she didn’t know better, she’d have pegged him as an amiable soccer dad instead of a crass, loudmouth sneak.

He grinned and waved at Toby. “Hey, kid. I brought you something.”

“What?” Toby cried as Mike walked around to the back of the truck.

“What do you think?” Mike swung down the tailgate and, in a single effortless motion, pulled off a shiny silver mountain bike.

Classic Mike Moody. She knew exactly how this would play out.