“Yeah, for the middle-aged mom’s club.” Terry shook her head. “They’re opposite sides of the spectrum.”
“You honestly think Dillon is too hot for Ava?”
Terry nailed her with a pointed stare. “You don’t?” She tossed the paper.
Meg caught the newsprint and stared at the picture taken a few weeks ago at one of the local honky tonks. Even in worn Levi’s and his Computers Need Love Too T-shirt, Dillon looked hot. Intense. Sexy. His hair was mussed, his jaw shadowed with stubble. His eyes glittered with a knowing sparkle that made her insides quiver.
“He looks even yummier in person,” Terry continued. “I saw him over at Jimmy Jo’s sports bar a few weeks back. I thought I was going to hyperventilate. But then I don’t have to tell you that. You two are friends, right?”
“We don’t see each other as often as we used to, but yes, we still talk.”
Among other things, a tiny voice whispered. A voice Meg quickly stifled.
Terry grinned. “Maybe you could introduce us.”
“I’ve already introduced you about a dozen times.” But Terry had never given Dillon a second glance.
Until now.
Meg tossed the paper back and the girl grinned.
“My bad.” She stared at the picture again. “I honestly don’t remember him looking like this. He’s definitely upped his hotness level. Has he been taking that Carnal class with you?”
“He’s doing research online.”
“On how to be a hottie?”
“Something like that.”
“It’s working.”
Unfortunately.
Meg ignored the crazy thought. Dillon’s newfound sex appeal was a good thing, even if it tested her control.
Because it tested her control.
If he could make her forget the man he’d been and inspire a megadose of lust for the man he’d become, then he could teach her how to do the same. Starting today. She’d already left two messages about lunch. Once he called her back, they would meet and the lessons would begin. Her next sexual encounter was sure to involve a man actually coming on to her, rather than the other way around.
That is, if she didn’t backslide, forget her principles and hump Dillon first.
Her nipples tingled at the thought and she frowned. “Speaking of work—” she hit the Place Order button and pushed to her feet “—Elise and her daughter should be here any minute.”
As if on cue, the bell on the front door tingled.
Terry sighed and set the paper aside. “Any ideas what you want me to set up in the dressing room?” she asked as she got to her feet.
“I don’t think we need to get too complicated. All of Elise’s girls went for the first Marc Jacobs I showed them.”
“Marc Jacobs it is.” Terry grinned. “The girl would have to be nuts to break that tradition.”
Nuts, or just plain stubborn.
Meg came to that conclusion after a fruitless half hour with Elise’s daughter, Honey Harwell.
She eyed the seventeen-year-old who stood on a platform in the monstrous dressing room. Honey had the same shade of blond hair as her mother and her four older sisters. But unlike the other Harwell women, Honey didn’t wear her silky locks styled in the latest trend. Rather, she’d stuffed them under a baseball cap that read Lady Bulldogs in honor of the local girl’s volleyball team. She wore blue jean overalls, a baseball jersey and tennis shoes.
“But your sister wore a dress just like this when she went to her prom,” Elise Harwell told her youngest daughter. A former local beauty queen, the forty-something woman was now the mayor’s wife and mother of five. As usual, her long blond hair was perfectly coiffed, her nails buffed and polished, and her face made-up with the latest Chanel lipstick and Christian Dior eye shadow. She wore a cream-colored silk blouse, matching skirt, a pair of gold sling-back stilettos and a determined look that said she wasn’t leaving without a dress. “You simply have to go with this. It’s too fabulous for words.”
Honey eyed the dress her mother held up and shook her head. “No.”
“But this is perfect,” Elise insisted.
“It’s yellow.”
“Buttercup, dear—” the older woman waved a hand “—and it’s the ideal shade for your skin tone. Just try it.”
Honey shook her head and crossed her arms. “I’m not wearing anything named after a flower. Or anything that has flowers on it. Or anything that looks flouncy. I’m so not doing flouncy.”
“But—”
“No.”
The woman looked ready to argue, but then her lips tightened. “All right, then. No flowers,” she finally muttered. She let out an exasperated sigh as she handed the dress back to Meg. “And no flounce.”
Bye-bye Marc.
“Of course.” Meg slid the hanger onto a nearby peg and reached for a soft, shimmering pink number that hung on a nearby rack with several others Terry had brought in after Honey’s first “Not in this lifetime.” “I bet this would look great.”
The girl took one look and pursed her lips. “If I wanted to look like a giant piece of bubble gum.”
O-kay.
“If I didn’t know better—” Elise forced a smile despite her pinched brow “—I’d say someone isn’t even remotely excited about going to her one and only senior prom.”
“I’m not excited about going. I don’t want to go. You’re making me.”
“Nonsense.” The woman waved red-tipped fingers. “Everyone goes to their senior prom. Why, every one of your sisters was either prom queen or a member of the royal court.”
“I’m not my sisters, and I’m not going to be part of a royal anything. Talk about lame.”
“There’s nothing lame about being popular, dear,” Elise said with tight lips, the flush creeping higher, all the way into her cheeks. “What about forest green? To match her eyes?” she asked Meg.
“Forget it,” the girl said before Meg could reach for another selection. “I’m not going as a cucumber.”
Elise’s smile slipped. “Perhaps we could try something in red?”
“I’ll look a Fruit Roll-Ups.”
“How about salmon?”
The girl rolled her eyes. “That’s just a fancy name for orange. I’m so not doing orange.”
The woman’s flushed cheeks turned splotchy. “How about navy blue?” she questioned.
“Too dark,” Honey chimed in.
“How about bronze?”
“Too flashy.”
“How about chartreuse?”
“Too Shrek-ey.”
“How about a valium?”
Meg smiled. “I’m afraid I haven’t restocked my supply of prescription sedatives, but I do have a nice Chardonnay chilling in the back.”
“Thank God.” Elise waved a hand. “I swear this child is going to send me to an early grave.”
“We don’t have to do this,” Honey reminded her mother.
“Yes, we do. You can’t miss your senior prom.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” Elise countered. “It’s a once in a lifetime thing. A tradition. No daughter of mine is not going to her one and only senior prom. You’ll regret it.”
“I will not.”
“Will, too.”
Both Elise and her daughter stared at Meg. “Tell her,” Elise said. “She’ll regret it.”
“Tell her I won’t.”
“I hate to say it, but you probably will.”
Honey shrugged a stubborn shoulder. “You’re just taking her side because you want to sell us a dress.”
Meg opened her mouth to tell Honey that she didn’t just want to sell a dress—she knew the regret firsthand—but Elise cut her off. “Honey Helen Harwell, that’s a very unladylike thing to say. Just wait until I tell your father. You’ll be lucky if he doesn’t ground you.”
Honey gave her first smile of the day. “Maybe he’ll do it on prom night.”
“Oh, no you don’t. Don’t think you’re getting ou
t of it that easy—”
“One glass of chilled Chardonnay coming right up,” Meg cut in. “Why don’t you two come up with a few must-haves—cut, color, style, etc—and when I get back I’ll see what I can do to find something that makes everyone happy?” Elise nodded, Honey shrugged and Meg decided to get the hell out of Dodge before things turned physical between the former Miss Skull Creek and the captain of the Lady Bulldogs.
“Let’s start over,” Elise let out an exasperated sigh as she turned toward her daughter. “What color did you have in mind?”
“I don’t know. Maybe camouflage.”
“Forget the glass,” Elise’s voice caught up with Meg just before she disappeared through the curtained doorway. “Just bring me the whole damned bottle.”
HE WAS THE HOTTEST GUY in the Piggly Wiggly.
Meg came to that conclusion later that afternoon as she stared at the tall dark haired stranger who stood in the meat section next to a life-size cutout of Roger the Rump Roast.
A white dress shirt, undone at the collar, framed his broad shoulders. Black trousers accented long legs, a trim waist and a really tight butt.
The guy, not Roger.
He leaned over to pick up a boneless shoulder roast. His trousers pulled and tugged in all the right places and Meg’s mouth went dry. Her grip on the box of Twinkies she’d been holding loosened and thudded into her shopping cart. Last night’s fantasy must still be affecting her.
She’d closed up shop over a half hour ago, after a long, endless day waiting for Dillon to return her phone calls.
Obviously he wasn’t all that interested in her proposition, despite his claim otherwise.
And why would he be? He was already smoking hot. Wardrobe tips were just the icing on the already scrumptious cake.
Meanwhile she hadn’t even made it into the oven.
If Dillon wasn’t going to share his secret, then all hope of making Tilly’s list was shot to hell and back. She was back at square one, still looking for that extra something that would give her an edge and force the men in town to see her in a different light.
A sexy light.
Sexually frustrated or not, she wasn’t breaking her vow—no more first moves. No, if Dillon wasn’t going to help her, she was doomed to wait until she found that extra something herself, which meant she was in store for more frustrating nights like the last one.
Which meant she needed Twinkies. Lots of Twinkies.
Hence her impromptu visit to the nearest grocery store.
She eyed the man again, doing a sweep once, twice, before shifting her attention to old man Darlington who stood near the frozen chickens, eyeing a package of chicken wings. Moving on, she spotted Hubert Humsucker stockpiling chocolate Ho Hos just a few feet away and Leonard Bunker who stood near an end cap checking out a Spam display.
Yes, he was definitely the hottest guy to make it past the open hoofs at the front entrance. Sure, he wasn’t as super sexy as the star of last night’s fantasy, but he was close.
An image stirred and she saw Dillon looking dark and delicious in faded jeans, a worn T-shirt and an expression that said he wanted to swallow her whole.
Okay, maybe hot guy wasn’t that close. But he definitely beat out the handful of losers from her past. He was handsome enough. He was also new in town—the cousin of a cousin of a cousin of Shirley Waltrip who owned a local real estate firm. She had hired him straight out of broker school—which meant he had no preconceived notions about Meg. And, more importantly, he was smiling at her.
He was smiling at her.
She tamped down the urge to waltz over and introduce herself. Instead, she waited, maintaining eye contact, mentally urging him to come to her.
He abandoned the roast and stepped toward her. Atta boy. Her heart kicked up a notch, but it wasn’t anywhere close to the breakneck stampede she’d felt last night.
Not that she was making comparisons. Last night had been so far out there. A wild and crazy dream.
This was the real thing.
He stepped closer, his strong, purposeful stride eating up the distance between them and she started to think that maybe she didn’t need Dillon’s secret, after all. Really, she’d been walking the walk and talking the talk for twelve years. It only made sense that some man would finally notice on his own.
She smiled and said, “Hi.”
He smiled and said—
“Game three of the NBA finals. Spurs or the Heat?” she heard a voice say behind her.
Meg’s head whipped around and she found herself staring at a short, squatty woman in her fifties. The lady wore a hair net, a white smock and a badge that read Fiber is my Friend.
Genevieve Crandall was one of the store’s clerks. She worked the register and handled the incontinent section, which had grown to take up a complete aisle since the second retirement community had opened up on the outskirts of town just last month.
“The employees got a pool going with some of our steady customers,” she told Meg. “Most everybody’s putting their money on San Antonio, including Paul in cleaning products, on account of it’s the closest thing we got to a home team. But Darlene in dairy likes the Heat because she has a sister down in Florida. Loretta and Lettie, the Bakersfield sisters who buy all the pork-’n-beans every time we run a special, put their money on Florida, too, ’cause they got a thing for that CSI Miami show. I like the show, but I ain’t sure it’s worth risking fifty bucks. I thought you could give me your pick.”
“I’m sorry, Genevieve. I was talking to this nice gentleman.” Meg shifted her attention back to hot guy. “I’m Meg. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Colt Grainger. I buy and sell ranch property.”
“Shirley’s cousin, right?”
“Twice removed, but yeah. I’m new around here and I could really use someone to show me around. I was wondering—”
“So was I,” Genevieve persisted. “Come on, Meg. You gotta help an old lady out. I’ve got a new pair of orthopedic inserts riding on this. The Spurs have a better rebound record, but the Heat had multiple three-pointers last year. Both teams are neck and neck on blocked shots.” She stared expectantly at Meg who stared expectantly at Colt.
A strange look came over his face as he eyed her. “You know basketball?”
“I—” Meg blurted, but it was Genevieve’s crackly voice that chimed in, “Sure as shootin’ she does. Why, this gal knows everything when it comes to sports. Girl was born to it. Daddy coached football over at the high school and took us to five consecutive championships. Four for our basketball team. Six for soccer. Eight track-and-field state finals. There ain’t nothing Meg, here, don’t know when it comes to sports. The girl’s a legend around here.” Her gaze swiveled to Meg. “Come on, sugar, who’s your favorite?” Genevieve persisted.
“I think this gentleman got here first.” Meg’s gaze met hot guy’s. “I think you were about to ask me something…?”
He looked puzzled for a split second before a thought seemed to strike. “Actually, I did.”
Her heart paused and the air lodged. This was it. This guy wanted her. She knew it. From the first moment he’d abandoned his roast, up until now. She read the sudden determination that leapt into his expression. The eagerness that blazed in his gaze. The strange way he looked at her now, as if he’d found the woman of his most erotic dreams.
“Yes?” Meg prodded.
“Spurs or Heat?” he blurted.
Meg blinked. “Excuse me?”
He shrugged and glanced at Genevieve. “I’d like to get in on the action if it’s not too late.”
“No problem,” the old woman told him. “Fifty bucks and you’re in.”
So much for flying solo.
Meg spent the next few minutes giving her opinion on the upcoming game—it wasn’t like she couldn’t not help Genevieve, particularly when the woman offered to throw in a case of Twinkies at cost—and then turned on her heel and went in search of Dillon Cash.
They didn’t
call her Manhandler Meg for nothing.
8
“THERE’S A WOMAN IN TOWN looking for you.” Nikki, Jake’s girlfriend, made the announcement that evening when she opened the door to the small office where Dillon sat taking notes on the computer screen that blazed in front of him. He’d been at his terminal for an hour now, since sunset to be exact, and he had no intention of powering off anytime soon.
He was finally onto something.
Even more, he was now sufficiently distracted from the damned hunger that had gnawed away at him all day. The more he’d tried to sleep, the more he’d thought about Meg. He’d been so worked up by the time he’d rolled out of bed, that he’d needed to kill some time and cool off before he saw her again. He’d needed something mundane and boring, and so he’d headed to work.
But when he’d logged on to his blog—after perfecting the last line of code for his new software program—he’d gotten a shock that had juiced him up almost as much as the thought of Meg’s sweet, succulent body.
Listed among the Do me, baby and Let’s be butt buddy comments were four posts that actually detailed turning experiences similar to Garret’s—the same sweet scent and the same medallion. All four were recent experiences and one even listed an actual name—Joe—and a location, Bryan Street, south side of Chicago, approximately six months ago.
It seemed that Joe had taken a bite out of IttyBittyVamp while he’d been club-hopping down in Chi town. In between clubs, Itty had run out of gas and had elected to knock on some poor sap’s door to ask to use the phone, since he’d had a cheap cell phone and zero service.
Joe had given Itty a helluva lot more than a call to Triple AAA.
The newbie vamp was still screwed up over the sudden change, still trying to figure things out and deal with what was happening to him, and so he couldn’t remember Joe’s actual address. He just remembered waking up a block or so from the last club he’d gone to. He’d been bloody and alone and clueless as to what had just happened to him.
But he knew now and he was frantically trying to find a way to reverse the situation.
Dillon had given him the basic lowdown—destroy the source in order to free himself—and then he’d spent the hours afterward cyber-searching Joes in and around the area where Itty had opened his eyes for the first time as a vamp.
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