Dalton Montgomery took this as his cue to commence with a nap.

The private back room of Duffy's Barbecue was famous for not only its fishing-themed decor, but also its oak and leather chairs roomy enough to allow a guy to enjoy a man-size meal without feeling sliced in half. In other words, it was easy to tune out of the bimonthly meeting's most mind-numbing portions.

As president-elect of Hot Pepper, Louisiana's chamber of commerce, Dalton had no problem tackling ordinary business matters. But whenever his fellow members started in with one of their half-dozen festivals they'd planned, or God forbid this pageant, he felt completely out of his league. But then these days, was there anywhere he did feel comfortable and in control?

As the only son of the president of the First National Bank of Hot Pepper, Dalton had been expected since birth to one day step into his father's shoes. The one time he'd deviated from the plan, he'd failed miserably both personally and professionally, leading him to believe maybe fate was smarter than he was.

Fifteen years later, here he was, resigned to living the rest of his days in a twelve-by-twelve office with an alley view.

Rubbing his forehead, he stifled a groan.

He wasn't usually so cranky about his lot in life. He had a large group of family and friends. A great house. Pool. Shiny new red Escalade. In the grand scheme of things, he didn't have much to complain about.

So why was it that when he'd shaved this morning, the guy gazing back at him in the mirro