Free Feuding Hearts by Natasha Deen

Chapter One
    Saturday morning found me with my head in the oven.
    I’m not suicidal. Although, living in Miami with an eighty-three-year-old woman who still thinks she needs childproof latches on the cupboards to protect me sometimes makes me yearn for the Great Beyond. I was elbow-deep in cleaning solution, remnants of fried chicken, and burned corn pone when I heard the back door slam and the sharp heel taps of my seriously ticked off Nana.
    Scrunching my nose against the scent of chemical cleaner and not bothering to lift my gaze from a stubborn clump of charred dough fused to the side of the oven, I asked, “What did he do, now?” The abrupt cessation of her steps signaled my grandmother’s surprise.
    “How did you know he did something?”
    I smiled at her cotton-candy voice, pulled my head out of the oven, and wiped away the last of the suds. “Because I’m exceedingly clever. Because we are so close, our bond is almost psychic. Because you’re walking like you want to stomp on his face.” I turned and looked at her—big blond hair teased and sprayed, ready to withstand a category-four hurricane, and enough mascara to keep the cosmetic company in the black for the next year. The tinder of fury smoldered in her eyes, waiting for a spark to ignite it into a blaze.
    Her eyes narrowed and her lips compressed into a tight, straight line. “Women born and raised in the great state of Georgia do not stomp, Angel, though we may step with passionate force.”
    Nana’s gaze lost focus, leaving the reality of wood and glass cabinets and slate countertops. I stifled a groan. The last time I’d seen that look, a police cruiser, a fireman, and a clown had been involved. Thanks to my fast talking and a sympathetic judge, I’d managed to keep both Nana and myself out of trouble. Still, we’d been banned from the Georgia Peach parade for the next ten years. “Nana, I don’t know what you’re thinking—”
    “If I were a stomper…”
    Her internal tinder sparked and brought quick flashes of light to her blue irises.
    “…I’d want to mash in his face—even if it ruined my pumps.” She paused and blinked. “My beautiful pumps.”
    Her mouth crumpled, a rosebud crushed by the callous disregard of our neighbor. My grandmother’s back straightened, her thin chest pushed out into military-worthy lines. Pride edged out my long-suffering caution. The woman was a handful and the reason behind a great number of my prayers to the good Lord, but she was a spit-fire and I tried to emulate her take-charge attitude.
    “They’d have to be sacrificed because of him—that—” She sputtered, her hands peddling the air.
    No doubt, she was thinking of a properly scathing retort.
    “—that rude man.”
    “Whoa, Nana. Language. I have virgin ears.” Not really, but some things she never needed to know. I pulled off the yellow rubber gloves and tossed them in the sink.
    “Don’t you sass me, Angelica Tiffany Montgomery Baxter.”
    I batted my eyes. “Me, sass you? Neveh.” I added the extra Southern drawl because I knew it always got her and grinned. “I need a break, anyway. Let’s have a coffee and you can pour out your heart.”
    “What I’d really like is to pour his medication down the sink,” she said as she moved to the pot. “Only, that’s not environmentally friendly.”
    “Not neighbor friendly, either.”
    She snorted.
    Of course, since she was Nana of the Southern Belles, the sound had all the refinement and breeding that had won her three consecutive Dairy Princess titles back in the ’40s.
    “I don’t care. He weeded my garden.”
    I heaved myself from off my knees, using the ceramic tiles to push myself to a stand. My cramped leg muscles protested the new position with sharp pulses of pain. I stretched, arching my back and letting the tension drain. After rinsing my hands at the sink, I took a seat at the wood block kitchen table.
    The sunlight streaming in from the May morning just about