My first instinct as a woman is to be hurt. I should be thinking about how I’ve failed at my job and instead I’m wondering what it is about me that made him think that. The whole undercover operation was based on me being someone who might be intriguing enough to Sam to lure him in. And now I find out that he doesn’t even find me attractive.

Ouch, that stings.

On so many different levels.

“You think I’m a lesbian?” I ask, my voice rising and cracking.

His loud burst of laughter rings out across the diner, causing several of the customers to look our way. A couple of the men nod at Sam and throw up a hand in greeting.

“Hell no!” he says, still chuckling. “I know better than that, darling. Where on earth did you come up with a crazy idea like that?” He looks around to make sure no one is listening before his voice lowers to a whisper.

“I meant are you a...vegan?”

I can’t help but laugh. He’s messing with me. And he got me good. Lesson learned. I’ll have to keep my guard up with him from now on. Sam is a sly, mischievous devil. Somehow my detailed research failed to reveal that vital piece of information.

“Just because I try to eat healthy doesn’t mean I’m a vegan.” I glance up at the waitress heading our way with our orders. “Looks like you should think about eating a little healthier, too.”

I watch in fascination as the waitress unloads Sam’s large order of biscuits, gravy, bacon, eggs, and grits. She places my tiny bowl of oatmeal in front of me.

“Please don’t tell me you eat like this every day,” I say, pointing to his plate.

He frowns at me. “Please don’t tell me you’re putting two packs of artificial sweetener in your oatmeal. At least I’m eating real food and not chemicals. And just so you know, I don’t eat like this every day. Some mornings when I’m feeling frisky, I order blueberry pancakes and sausage instead.”

I roll my eyes at him.

“Let’s see who is still alive in fifty years,” I say.

“So you’re planning on sticking around for decades?” he asks. “How long are you going to be in town?”

“As long as it takes to write the magazine articles I’m working on,” I lie.

“Oh, you’re a writer?” he asks. “Who do you work for?”

Time to spin my cover story of lies.

“I’m a freelance writer for several different magazines. I’m currently on assignment doing a story about Southern traditions. The North Georgia Mountains seemed like a good place to start. So here I am.”

Sam looks up from the plate of food he is rapidly devouring.