Excerpt of Goin' Down To Georgia by Ann DeFee

This fiasco was getting better and better. Liza was standing in front of the Magnolia Inn--aka, the Greyhound bus station-clutching a sign that she 'd scribbled on the back of Josh 's homework. She was parked in a loading zone and Deputy Booty Carter was lurking around itching to give her a ticket. If this Maynard guy was smart, he 'd take one look at her '83 pickup and beat feet back to the airport.

Mama always said confidence could conquer anything. Liza scowled, that was great advice coming from a woman who wore pearls to the Piggly Wiggly. She might look like Daisy Mae, but she was a respected member of the business community. Heck, she even had a law degree.

So instead of hyperventilating, Liza visualized her favorite power suit and high, very high heels. Considering she was barely five feet tall, she needed all the help she could get. Forget about the shorts and T-shirt, she 'd radiate self-assurance and professionalism. Right-she 'd do that right after she sold him the Brooklyn Bridge .

Liza watched as the second bus of the morning rumbled up to the overhang, disgorging its passengers. She held up her homemade poster hoping Maynard would notice his name. The first passengers were either too young, too old or the wrong gender. A young mother grabbed a fussy toddler before the child could catapult out the door. A couple of teens with gym bags and backward baseball hats elbowed each other as they ambled down the steps.

Her best bet was the middle-aged man with the briefcase. He was eliminated when he broke into a smile and waved at a woman on the other end of the sidewalk. Distracted for a moment by someone honking their horn, Liza spun back around just in time to glimpse a rumpled, absolutely gorgeous guy standing at the top of the steps. He was wrestling with his laptop and a bulky carry-on, and as her fraternal twin Maizie would say-woo, woo, woo!

Too bad he wasn't her boy. Not only was he handsome, he was entirely too athletic looking to be some two-bit wanna- be investigator, or whatever. The guy was a devastating combo of Paul Newman's blue eyes, Mel Gibson's tush and George Clooney's smile. Someone should probably tell him that Colombo was okay as a detective, but he was not a good fashion consultant.

An exuberant reunion at the bottom of the steps stopped the flow of passengers and allowed Liza a few more minutes to inspect him--late thirties with hints of silver in his dark hair, eyelashes to die for and a don't mess with me frown on his face.

Liza was still checking out his sexy buns when she heard a crash that sounded way too close to her truck. Merciful heavens! Some nitwit had just knocked off the back bumper. And the same guy was barreling off in a cloud of black, oily smoke.

She took off at a sprint. Maybe, just maybe, she could get a license plate number.

"Stop! Stop!" she screeched. "That's hit and run." Liza paused, gagging from the fumes.

She really wanted to pitch a fit, but somehow she controlled that impulse and merely slammed the bumper into the bed of the truck. Fantastic! All she needed was some hubcaps and a minnow bucket, and every red-neck in town would be hittin' on her.

"Please, please tell me that sign you 're waving around doesn't say Maynard." Mr. Handsome was glaring at her as if he expected Snuffy Smith to appear in full Smokey Mountain regalia. And no wonder, the man probably thought he'd stepped into the Twilight Zone. Mortified. She was purely and simply mortified. "Yes." Liza waved the sign, trying to squelch her coughing. "Are you Maynard?"

The man 's lip was twitching as if he was trying to hide a grin. He had dimples to die for and he was laughing at her! How dare he chortle when she wanted to die from embarrassment?

"Yeah, I 'm Zack Maynard."

There went the dimples again. No doubt about it, he thought she was a rube. Before Liza could reply, he wandered toward the pile of luggage on the sidewalk. Well, if that didn't take the cake. The first guy in forever to get her juices flowing, and he had her pegged as an Appalachian bimbo. She'd admit she wasn't dressed for a board meeting, but that didn't give him license to laugh at her. She should count to ten, take a deep breath and remain calm. She could do it. She knew she could. Unfortunately, she hadn't counted on the adrenaline surge. Too bad Liza always managed to forget Mama 's old adage that even a fish wouldn't get in trouble if it kept its mouth shut. She snatched the handle of the suitcase.

"Guess what, buddy, you 're not in San Francisco. You 're in the South. We have some unwritten rules. People are polite and civilized, even if they're grumpy. We say 'yes sir and no sir'."

Her voice rose as she waved her hands in the air. "We smile at clerks. We honk only if we 're about to hit someone. We don't jaywalk. We exchange conversation in elevators. And most importantly, we don't laugh at strangers. Now give me that suitcase, and let's get out of here."

Even though Zack was dead on his feet, he was smart enough to realize he'd seriously irritated the little elf who was trying to yank the suitcase handle out of his hands. Although the woman looked vaguely like Winona Ryder, the glare she was giving him was vintage Joan Crawford. What in the world was she talking about-jaywalking, elevators, store clerks?

"Madam, please let go of my suitcase. I saw your sign." He indicated the piece of notebook paper she was still clutching. "And I mistakenly thought you 'd been sent to pick me up." He enunciated every word like he was speaking to a not too bright three-year old.

Liza went up on her tiptoes, but still couldn't get nose-to- nose with him. "I am here to pick you up. Let go of the stupid suitcase and we'll leave."

Zack had heard Southerners could be squirrelly, but this one beat all. He was too busy wondering if she was planning to smack him to notice that a policeman had ambled up.

"Is there a problem here?" the man drawled.

Cop with a gut and a gun...hmmm. Sanity returned with a vengeance. Zack dropped the piece of luggage. "No problem, we were just discussing who would carry the bag, and my little friend wants the pleasure. So I'll let her."

He turned to Liza. "Grab the stuff and let 's get going," he instructed, handing her his carry-on. Never one to leave things alone, he volleyed another shot, "Be careful, I don't want anything broken." He turned so she wouldn't see his grin, but he heard her growl. She actually snarled at him. How about that?

"Is that pickup your vehicle?" he asked.

It didn't take eyes in the back of his head to realize she was giving a deadly glare. She'd grabbed the two suitcases and was trying to catch up to his long-legged stride. He had to give her an A+ for determination.

"Maynard, wait up," she panted.

She hadn't divulged her name, so she had him at a disadvantage. And he had better manners than to use "hey, you."

"What do you have in here, bricks?" she groused, lugging the heavy suitcase down the sidewalk.

Zack debated whether to remind her it had wheels. That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, and with her temper in high dudgeon she'd probably never think of it, but the devil on his shoulder won out. This woman was incredibly entertaining, and in the past day and a half, he hadn't had too many chuckles.

Zack leisurely strolled toward the rattletrap. When he glanced back, he noticed she 'd discovered the wheels and was making better time, but her mood hadn't improved. She was a beauty even if she was stomping along like a pint- sized Godzilla in a snit.

When they got closer to the Bondo-mobile, Zack spied her cargo and almost hooted. Kevin would die if he could see how far down the ladder they rated.

"Okay," he said with a grin. "I've been a good sport so far. What are you, a junk dealer or a deranged pixie? And why do you have a purple john in the bed of this abominable excuse for a truck?"

"Aubergine," she said, gazing intently at the pavement.

"Aubergine? I give. What 's an aubergine?" He ran his fingers through his hair. "It sounds like an overripe avocado."

"Aubergine, you Neanderthal, is the color of an eggplant. Purple," she shouted, "and I 'm not a pixie, I'm a grandmother."

Holding up his hands in surrender, Zack backed off. "If we don't want another cop encounter, we'd better throw my bags in the truck and get out of here." He ambled over to the passenger side door. Yep, he could play this game.

Hiding a smile, he watched as she struggled to stow the luggage. Finally, she gave up and dumped the carry-on bag in the bathtub. With a drop dead glare, she slammed the tailgate shut before marching to the driver 's side and jumping in. It was obvious she wanted to leave him standing in the road; however, she grudgingly unlocked his door. But, she barely gave him time to get in before she ground the truck into gear.

Zack grabbed the scuffed plastic armrest as they careened into traffic. He leaned his head back against the cracked vinyl seat. This whole trip had been a long free fall down Alice 's rabbit hole. He halfway expected to see a hare, complete with waistcoat and monocle, hitching a ride.

A horn blared as she cut across several lanes of the busy street. He surreptitiously assessed this grandmother who looked like Elizabeth Taylor in the classic Cleopatra movie.

He wondered what she'd look like in a gauzy, see-through, Queen of Sheba outfit with her satiny midnight hair, olive skin and tilty caramel colored eyes. She'd be gorgeous but deadly, that's what, cowboy. And with her attitude, she wouldn't hesitate to cut off his private parts. Zack closed his eyes. He had to get some sleep before he turned into a total nut case.