by Renee George
Published 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62517-999-9
Published by Book Boutiques. Copyright © Published 2015, Renee George.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, recording, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of Book Boutiques.
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity to actual persons, living or dead, locales, or event is wholly coincidental. The names, characters, dialogue, and events in this book are from the author’s imagination and should not to be construed as real.
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Blurb
You’ve Got Tail by USA Today bestselling author Renee George is a laugh-out-loud cozy mystery. Kidnapping, murder, and a town full of people hiding the truth will keep Sunny Haddock busy as she tries to unravel the strange happenings in Peculiar, Missouri. Fall in love with a hilarious cast of characters in Book 1 of Peculiar Mysteries; a paranormal romantic comedy that will not only have you laughing…it will also melt your heart.
Welcome to Peculiar, Missouri!
Sunny Haddock, an animal-loving vegetarian psychic, is stoked to leave California behind to start a new life in the Ozark town of Peculiar with her best friend Chavvah Trimmel. She ups the moving date when Chav goes missing, and Sunny high tails it to the small town. What Sunny doesn’t realize is that she’s moving into a community of were-shifters, and they don’t want a human resident. Especially one dumb enough to arrive a couple of days before the full moon—the only night of the month shifters have to take their pure animal forms.
When the gorgeous Babel Trimmel, Chav's younger brother, (along with the sheriff, the mayor, and some other nice folk) suggests Sunny haul her U-haul and butt back out of town, she’s undeterred. Her psychic abilities might be out-of-whack, and blood makes her faint, but she’s not a quitter. Besides, she's not about to go anywhere until she finds out what happened to Chavvah.
But Sunny has more to deal with than unfriendly townsfolk...like disturbing killer visions and the dog-like animal no one else sees that seems to be stalking her every move. To make matters worse, she is finding Babel to be more irresistible than crack on a donut.
Sunny needs to get her ability and her hormones under control if she wants to solve the mystery and save her best friend.
“Move over Cesar Millan, Sunny’s in town, and this psychic makes house calls. Hilarious!” Dakota Cassidy, USA Today Bestselling author of the Accidental series.
Acknowledgements
This book has been a long time coming, and it’s seen many, many incarnations over the years as I developed the storyline. Thank all that is good and chocolate that I had BFFs holding my hands, reading, helping me to revise and revise during the process. So in that light, I must praise Robbin Clubb, Michele Bardsley, and Dakota Cassidy for always having my back and believing in my ability to tell an entertaining story. This book might have seen the light of day without you all, but it wouldn’t be nearly as good.
I have to thank my husband as well, for putting up with all my many moods (think Three Faces of Eve, people! I don’t think another living soul could put up with my crazy for twenty-five years like he has.
I need to also mention Renee’s Rebels and The Wolf Pack for continuing to support my work, read it, promote it, and love it. You all are ROCK STARS!
Finally, I need to thank my editor Kelli Collins, who painstakingly combed through this manuscript and called me out when I needed it. You, lady, are awesome.
Chapter 1
Some people jump into the deep end of the pool feet first, some head first, but I’ve always been a traditional belly-flopper. Splashy, messy, and usually painful. Which still didn’t explain why I was sitting on the floor of a closed diner, nursing my bruised butt, not to mention my pride, and staring woefully at a naked unconscious man in the middle of Peculiar, Missouri.
My parents are crazy from way back. Maybe that’s where I get it from. Seriously, who names a child Ambrosia Sunshine? Two hippies, that’s who. They told me when I was old enough to resent the flower child name that they’d thought it was cool at the time, but I personally believe it was the result of one too many ’shrooms. As it is, I’ve been forced to sit through many painful renditions of “You Are My Sunshine.” If I had a dead body for every time I was teased, well, let’s just say I’d get an express pass to the electric chair. Although, if I got a sympathetic judge, he’d probably consider my life time served.
Maybe my parents’ experimentation with drugs is what had made me psychic. (No, I didn’t say psychotic. I said psychic.) On the other hand, it could also explain why I’m so bad at it.
My ability allows me glimpses, more like screenshots, of the past, present, and future. But, clearly, the visions have not been helpful over the years. And the side effects, sheesh. Most of the time I feel a little dizzy when they hit, but every once in a while it’s as if someone has taken a sledgehammer to the inside of my skull. Usually I can feel one coming on; otherwise driving might be an issue. If only they made medic-alert bracelets for my type of ailment. It certainly hasn’t been a gift.
That’s why my friendship with Chavvah Trimmel is so important. We’d met at the community college in San Diego. She thought my name was weird and awesome all rolled up into a spring roll. After finding out her family’s propensity for strange biblical names, I thought it was a bit of the pot calling the kettle rusty. Chavvah, or Chav, as she likes to be called, was my first best friend. And when she’s around me, my psychic mojo kicks up twenty notches. It’s as if I can tap into some kind of mystic hotline whenever she’s near.
As a matter of fact, the last time I’d gotten a clear vision had been in my dining room back in California. Chav, who’d been renting my spare bedroom at the time, had just turned down the heat on the spaghetti sauce and I was setting the table. We were having an “I finally dumped the cheating bastard” celebratory dinner. Did I mention I’m a bad psychic? So I hadn’t a clue what I was walking in on when I caught my boyfriend of three years having sex with the skank waitress from the coffee shop. On my couch, no less. Jerk. I took his spare key and kicked his ass (and the couch) to the curb.
At dinner that night, when the vision hit me, I’d hit the ground, along with some clattering dishes. I saw a present moment of Chav’s parents huddled together, debating whether to call her about her missing brother. Talk about being the bearer of bad news. I didn’t blame her for not believing me at first, or the stunned look she gave me when she called her parents and it turned out to be true. Her brother Judah had dropped off the map.
Chav flew back to Missouri the next day. After a year of searching for him, the local police had pretty much given up on Judah, but by that time, Chav had forgotten about the ocean and fallen in love with the little town of Peculiar. Hell, from her letters and phone calls, I’d kind of fallen in love with the place as well. She’d bought a restaurant in the rural town, a real fixer-upper, for the two of us to run. A fifty-fifty partner split.
I wasn’t supposed to leave California for another two weeks, and Chav had said she needed to talk to me “in person” before I made the trip, but the text I’d gotten from her five days ago sent me packing in a hurry.
All it said was: Sunny. I need u.
After that, every call I’d made to Chav went straight to voice mail. Without any real plan, I jumped into my gas-guzzling Toyota 4X4, which I had purchased explicitly for the move. One thousand six hundred and sixty-two point four miles later, as I drove over a swinging bridge (the only way in and out, I soon discovered) into the quaint little town, my
whole body heaved a sigh of relief. I felt strangely wonderful. It was as if someone unzipped my off-the-rack skin and fitted me with a tailored Sunny suit.
The town looked very similar to Mayberry from The Andy Griffith Show. Dirt streets, old fashioned shops and houses, white picket fences, and lots of Chevy and Ford pickup trucks. I was a little nervous when my GPS said, “You have arrived,” right outside a two-story yellow building on the corner of Third Street and Main.
My heart pounded as I stood outside our restaurant for the first time. I’d always expected some kind of fanfare. Chav waiting to usher me into our future. She’d even named the restaurant for me. Sunny’s Outlook. I’d blame allergies for my eyes watering at that moment, but I knew it was a mixture of happiness and sadness all rolled into one big bundle. This was our place. Mine and Chav’s. And she’d done it up spectacularly.
I smiled at the brightly colored lettering. All the letters except the big O in Outlook were blue. The O was not an O at all, but a bright orange sun. If it was possible to feel both warm and cold at the same time, I accomplished it.
Where was Chav? I knew in my bones something was wrong, but the nearly two years we’d spent apart had dulled my psychic ability toward her, so once again I had become inept with crazy flashes that didn’t amount to much of anything.
I jiggled the door handle. It wasn’t locked, so being the smart, city-savvy girl I am, I decided to let myself in. After all, I owned half the joint, so I wasn’t trespassing.
Darkness enclosed the front room with the exception of a few areas illuminated by sunlight filtering into the two small windows near the ceiling. They were surrounded by open wooden shutters. Where were the large storefront windows? This place was more dive bar than restaurant. Strange decor choice, but my concern for Chav kept me from imagining a complete makeover. I couldn’t find a light switch around the door. I should have just gone back out to the truck for a flashlight, but I thought I saw a panel on the wall across the room, and frankly, it was sheer laziness that moved me forward.
I managed to maneuver around the counter, open the panel, and flicked several of the switches at once. The lights came on and when I stepped back to admire my new home lit up—it didn’t look half bad; hardwood floors, cute little tables with black-and-white gingham cloth, and a couple of booths with the same checkered design on the benches.
And that’s when it happened. My heel caught on something large and I fell ass-backward to the ground. It didn’t take more than a nanosecond to see that I’d tripped over a naked man passed-out cold on the floor.
After a startled yelp, heart palpitations, and worry that he’d wake up at any moment and kill me, I reached over and touched him. Just his arm, mind you. He didn’t move, but his skin felt warm and his chest raised and lowered, so I didn’t bother to check for a pulse.
Instead, I found myself staring…for several minutes. (Come on. He was naked and lying on his back. Who wouldn’t stare?) Dark-brown hair populated his broad chest and led to a happy trail that, well, if the circumstances had been different would have made me very happy indeed. He had thickly muscled thighs and arms, and his face, except for the scruffy five o’clock shadow, looked as if it had been chiseled by Michelangelo. Imagine a better-looking Wolverine (Hugh Jackman’s version), but much younger and with a burly lumberjack vibe, and course, medium-length walnut-brown hair.
I chewed my lower lip as I took my time pondering the situation—in other words, I wasn’t ready to stop staring at the naked man. His hair was near the same hue of brown as my own, but I doubted his color came from a bottle. And mine was shorter with a better haircut. I sighed with regret. I already missed my stylist Serg.
Taking a deep breath, I counted backward from ten to pull myself out of the hormonal frenzy going on in my head. The man was hotter than a habanero, but I wasn’t looking for a date. I smelled a pungent sweet scent I hadn’t noticed before, but frankly I was surprised any of my senses still worked. It was whiskey. Some kind of blended version, if I had to guess.
Great. Just perfect. Burly Hugh looked more and more like a drunk who had crawled into the diner to sleep off a bender.
I found an empty spray bottle by the sink and filled it with water. Positioning myself on the opposite side of the checkout counter (just in case I needed to make a run for it), I leaned over the top and proceeded to spritz the unconscious man. The mist must have been too fine, because other than the rise and fall of his chest, he still didn’t move.
Crawling farther up onto the counter, I stretched my arms over the other side, hovering just inches from his face. I pumped the trigger hard three or four times, then screamed and dropped the bottle when his hand shot up and grabbed my wrist. The Neanderthal yanked me completely over the top and onto his naked self. He growled—honest to goodness, I wouldn’t lie about such a thing. He growled. The noise started in his chest. I know, because I could feel it in mine, which was now crushed against him.
Why hadn’t I just left and called the police? It would have been the easy thing to do—the smart thing. His arms were squeezed tight around me, and I became acutely aware of his Mr. Happy pressing against the skin of my thigh.
His eyelids cracked a peep, then he narrowed his gaze. “Who are you?”
“I…” I should be the one asking the damn questions, but the only ones coming to mind were completely inappropriate. Like, where did he work out? How good looking were his parents to create such a fine specimen of man? And did he have a girlfriend?
There was a moment, a very weak moment on my part, where I began to lower my face to his, our lips only centimeters apart.
What the hell am I doing? Where was my head? He could be a serial killer, a rapist, or someone really bad, like an Amway salesman. I turned my head away from his. “Could you let me up, please?”
He squeezed me tighter. “Are you going to answer me?”
Finally, I gulped and squeaked out, “Sunny Haddock.”
His left eyebrow rose. “Sunny Haddock?”
“Uh, that would be me. Yes.” I’d been in town less than an hour and I was already famous. Well, my name was on the side of the building. “And you would be?”
“Babel Trimmel.”
“Chav’s baby brother?” I’d heard stories about him, but I’d imagined him to be terminally twelve. The age he’d been when Chav had left Missouri for the West Coast.
“Chavvie made a big mistake. She shouldn’t have asked you out here.”
Talk about judging someone before you get the know them. Barely through introductions and he already wanted me out. I’ve made a bad first impression before, but what the fuck? What didn’t he like about me? Although maybe it wasn’t about like. Because, by the rise of his hoo-ha against my leg, I could swear he liked me a little.
An unfamiliar flutter twittered in my stomach. It’d been awhile since I’d been so physically attracted to anyone. Babel’s nostrils flared with a slight huff. His brows narrowed. His eyes dark with purpose. I felt like Little Red Riding Hood, and Babel filled the role of the Big Bad Wolf intent on eating my goody basket. Oh, if only.
Pull yourself together, Sunny. But it was really hard, along with his arms, his chest, his abs, his…
Holding me tighter, his arms locked around me. He stroked my back with his firm hands. I trembled, fighting back a deep moan. “Please let me up, Babel,” I said again.
He froze for a second then relaxed. He unlocked his arms from around me and smiled. “Call me Babe. Everybody does.”
To say I scrambled off his body would be a bit of an overstatement. The trembling had left my arms and knees weak, but I managed, albeit slowly. “I don’t know you well enough to call you Babe. Sorry.” I couldn’t keep my eyes off his semi-erect package. “Could you put some clothes on? I’m feeling a little…”
He propped up on an elbow like a Playgirl centerfold and grinned. “Overdressed?”
What an egomaniac! “No. Sheesh.” Okay, so maybe I felt a tad ove
rdressed, even in my pink spaghetti-strap shirt dress with black short-shorts and sandals. It was hot in Missouri. Sticky hot. And besides, I’d put in more hours than I care to count at the gym to counterbalance my donut habit, so I deserved to wear those shorts. My exercise routine wasn’t all about the donuts. Over two years of no sex, since the dickhead had cheated, and while I’m no sex maniac, that’s a long time for someone who had been getting it on the reg.
The “no sex” could also explain why I had such a visceral reaction to this guy. No doubt the man was a hunka-hunka. “Could you quit posing on the floor?” I wagged my finger toward his poker. “And for the love of daisies, put some clothes on before that thing puts out someone’s eye.”
He had the courtesy to look the tiniest bit embarrassed. “Nothing personal. It’s a purely physical reaction.”
“I’m sure you say that to all the girls.”
“Sorry, I just meant, well, I’m a guy. You brush against the junk, it goes stiff.”
“And here I thought I was special.” This line of conversation bordered on hurting my feelings. I know I’m not a beauty queen, but neither am I Medusa. “You can shut up now.”
Color rose to his cheeks—those nice fuzzy, chiseled, scruffy, manly cheeks, so perfectly book-ending his Roman nose and gorgeous bow lips. And damn it to hell, his teeth were friggin’ perfect! He pulled himself up by grabbing the counter, and holy schmoly, the man was tall. If I had to guess, he bordered on 6’5”. I’m pretty sure I hated him for being so beautifully handsome.
“I only meant to say…”
I almost offered to buy him a shovel, but he managed to dig his own hole quite deep without any help from me. “I’ve got it already, jeesh. Not interested, physical reaction, yada, yada, yada. No need to explain yourself further. Besides, I’m not looking for a boyfriend, so doesn’t matter. And even if I was, it certainly wouldn’t be my best friend’s baby brother. We cool?” I didn’t wait for him to answer. I waved him off. “Great. Excellent. Awesome even. Now, put on some damn clothes.” Why-oh-why was I attracted to crazy?
