Page 3 of The Worst Possible Plan

I shrugged. “I was literally just wanting some eggs.”

“For starters,” said Lola with a smile. She patted the empty chair beside her. “Sit down before you pass out.”

“I’m fine.”

“Sweetheart, your left eye is twitching.”

Was it? “That’s just stress.”

“That’s never a good sentence.”

I let out a sigh and sat. I was ravenous, and even Lola’s body shaming wouldn’t get in the way of me and my eggs, and maybe pancakes. Sausages. And if I was spending the morning alone, definitely beans with maple syrup. You didn’t want to eat those in a crowd. Trust me. Dottie’s maple syrup beans had a way of turning a perfectly innocent fart into a career-ending event.

Lola took a delicate sip of her coffee, studying me over the rim of the cup like a woman evaluating a disappointing handbag. “So. Tell me about this Henry character. He dumped you. Did you cry? Of course you did.” She gave a small sympathetic wince. “And then you lost your job and your apartment after? Darling, that’s not a rough patch. That’s the opening scene of a documentary.”

“I’m not a documentary.”

“You’re living in an inn with one suitcase and stress bangs. You’re dangerously close.”

I opened my mouth to point out that she lived here too. Okay, yes, she had the best room in the inn and more money than most of the people in town, but a cheerful voice stopped me.

“Sophie! Wonderful. You’re just in time for your breakfast,” said a voice I knew all too well.

I turned to see Dottie heading toward us, barefoot as usual, with pancake batter smeared across one cheek and her blonde-and-white hair twisted into a messy bun held together by two spoons. She wore a long denim skirt, a loose shirt, and an apron that read: I YELL BECAUSE I CARE.

Dottie had been running the inn’s breakfast kitchen for as long as I could remember and still moved around the dining room like a woman operating entirely on caffeine, rage, and salted butter. I was fairly certain she’d once threatened a tourist with a spatula for asking if the pancakes were gluten free.

She marched over carrying a plate so massive it nearly disappeared beneath the food. Pancakes, eggs, bacon, toast, and something caramelized that may once have been fruit before Dottie decided sugar and frying it were better ideas. She set down a fresh mug of coffee beside it with a satisfied nod.

“Here you go,” she announced proudly.

The smell alone nearly healed me emotionally.

“Thank you,” I said, just as my stomach gave an enormous growl. My face burned. “Got to feed the beast.” I laughed, patting my stomach.

Lola slowly lowered her coffee cup. “Darling, I think your organs are trying to communicate with us.”

I grabbed my fork before my stomach could publicly embarrass me any further.

“Don’t eat too much,” said Lola. “Or you’ll never be able to fit your ass in a decent pair of jeans.”

I blinked. “Thanks for the tip.”

Dottie shook her head. “Don’t listen to the tramp. Eat your carbs. They’re good for you. And your butt.”

“She says that because she cooks entirely with butter,” Lola replied smoothly.

Dottie raised her brows. “Flavor matters.”

“It’ll make her fat,” countered Lola. “That’s the last thing she needs.” She waved a finger at me. “The woman got dumped. Lost her job and her apartment. Trust me. She can’t afford to put on weight. She’s already close to the point of no return. That’s a sizable ass.”

“What?” I turned around in my seat and tried to look at my butt. No idea why I did that.

Dottie pulled one of her spoons out of her hair and pointed it at Lola. “Leave her alone. She’s allowed to eat her sorrows. That’s what carbs are for.”

“Wine is for sorrows,” Lola corrected. “Carbs are for people who’ve given up.” She shook her head. “Only ugly people eat carbs. Sophie is not ugly.”

“I guess… thanks?” I said, not sure where this conversation was going.