She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series)

by Jasmine Haynes

  Take that, Cookie. “So, you called to admonish me for introducing myself to Cookie at church this morning.”

  He looked from her to the sofa to the closed blinds of his window fronting Main Street. He moved to open them, then sat in his chair, effectively making the desk a barrier between them. “I thought we had an understanding last night.” Pulling a stack of folders close, he shuffled through them, then shoved them aside, going for the pen holder next. “She’s got enough problems with Jimbo without—”

  “Warren, she doesn’t have any problems with Jimbo. If you’d observe her with him every once in awhile, you’d see she’s playing you for a fool. She’s Kathleen Turner in Body Heat and you’re a poor sap like William Hurt who doesn’t figure out until it’s too late that he’s being used.”

  “Stop it.” He slammed his fist on the desk at the same time he shouted. Bobbie jumped half off the sofa.

  Hmm, this wasn’t like Warren. “Do you think you start taking your Prozac again?”

  “Dammit, my drugs aren’t your business. In fact, nothing I do is your business. I don’t know why I bothered to explain in the first place.”

  He stood, strode back and forth in front of the window, then came out from behind the desk to pace. Usually a man with an economy of movement, this wasn’t like him either.

  Must be what getting involved with Cookie did. Made him antsy, out of character. “You’re right,” she said. The same goes for you. If I want to go to church and talk to Jimbo and the sheriff, I will. No matter what your little Cookie says.”

  “The sheriff was there, too?”

  She smiled, and not twisting the knife never entered her mind. “Cookie was very insistent he not be late for brunch. Do you think something’s going on between her and the sheriff behind your back? Oops, excuse me, behind her husband’s back.”

  He stopped, stared at her, then began the pacing again. “What are you trying to do, Roberta?”

  To hurt him, to annihilate him, to...oh my goodness, when had she become so vindictive? Wasn’t she the little dumped wife who didn’t have a spiteful bone in her body? She suddenly and desperately wanted to believe her own rhetoric. Vengeful wives scared her. “I’m sorry, Warren. It won’t happen again.”

  But it would. She wouldn’t be able to help herself, no matter how much she’d never wanted to hate Warren. Because sometimes, she did.

  And darn it, she relished the thought of the next encounter with Cookie. At the decorating committee. She deserved it. She deserved to be spiteful. Vindictive, here I come. It felt so wonderful, she didn’t even bother to remind Warren her name was Bobbie.

  Back and forth, he went, back and forth. She felt like she was watching a tennis match. “We’ve both been under a lot of stress lately, Roberta.”

  Deep breath. Pretend you’re not ready to spit nails. “I suppose I’m just nervous about my date with the sheriff tonight.”

  She was quite pleased with her ability to slip that one in. After all, hadn’t showing Warren that other men found her attractive been her original and primary goal? Vindictive and vengeful aside.

  He stopped just short of wearing a hole in the carpet. “You have a date with the sheriff?”

  “Yes. Dinner at the Rowdy Tavern.”

  “Why did he ask you?”

  She huffed out a breath, and something started to boil inside her, something a bit like the passion that had sent her across the lawn into Cookie’s quagmire. “Why shouldn’t he?”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.” He waved his hands in the air. “Of course he’d want to. You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  “Don’t patronize me, Warren.” Woman power, watch out, Warren, or it just might crush you.

  He rushed back behind the desk and settled in his chair once more, as if he knew how telling his pacing had been. Leaning forward, he put his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. For just a moment. Then, “I wanted to ask for your help with—” He stopped abruptly.

  She knew he was thinking exactly the same thing as she was. She’d already given him as much help with Cookie as he was ever going to get from her.

  “This is your problem, Warren. You’re going to have to work it out yourself.”

  It was a measure of his desperation that he tried one last time. “I’m thinking about the whole town here, Roberta.”

  She pondered what new and potentially juicy item Cookie had fed him. “I’m all ears.”

  “I’m sure you haven’t learned all of this yet, but Jimbo built a mall out—”

  “At the junction of Highway 26 and Main. Of course, I know about it.” But she hadn’t known Jimbo built it.

  “Yes, well...” He couldn’t stand it, and rose to start his striding before going on. “It’s put a lot of the merchants in town in a pinch. They’ve lost a lot of their business. And Jimbo owns most everything around here...”

  “He’s their landlord?”

  He flung himself down on the opposite end of the sofa, gave her a beseeching look. “For most of them. And Cookie, well, she’s been trying to get him to be a little more lenient if anyone gets behind on the rents.”

  “Cookie?” Yeah, right.

  He was up again, three seconds more than he could bear to be still. “Most of the people in this town are her friends. She doesn’t want him taking his anger out on them.”

  And if you don’t get your head out of that place where the sun don’t shine, you’re going to suffocate.

  She didn’t say it, because she was willing to bet yet another lifetime mocha supply, with whipped cream no less, that greedy little Cookie had wanted the minimall and Jimbo was the one being lenient with his tenants. Or maybe she was extorting money from everyone to make sure Jimbo didn’t kick them out. There had been that day she’d seen Cookie in Bushman’s Clothiers. Hmmm, what had really been going on in there?

  “Can you see how important it is that you leave things alone?” That pitiable gaze again. Tinged with anxiety. Was he terrified of losing Cookie, the way he had twenty years ago?

  Time to go before she let herself get really angry. Bobbie unfurled her legs from beneath her and slipped into her sandals. “Yes, Warren, I can see how important this is to you.”

  A big so what.

  Maybe she’d been fooling herself this last month. Maybe she really had come here not just to show him what he was missing, but also to break up Warren and his little Cookie.

  Not that she’d want him back or anything.

  “So you’ll be a little more...circumspect?”

  Not on your life, Warren. “Of course. Bye-bye.”

  Now, how to use the information he’d just given her?

  She reflected on that as she stepped onto the sidewalk, the afternoon still hot despite the fact that it was almost five-thirty. Down the street, the parking spaces in front of Johnson’s Soda Fountain were full, dribs and drabs of ice-cream buyers flowing out onto the sidewalk. Hmm, ice cream on a hot day after a face-down with Warren sounded just right.

  “Is that what you’re wearing tonight?”

  She squealed and turned to find Sheriff Braxton hovering over her. He’d changed from the charcoal suit into a black, button-down shirt and black jeans. Black went well with that blond hair. Though the same honey-wheat, Warren’s was thin where the sheriff’s was thick and beckoning. He’d masked his beautiful blues with a pair of dark shades.

  With a hand to her chest, she said, “I still have time to go home and change. If you think I should.”

  “Don’t bother on my account.” He pulled the glasses off and shoved them in his shirt pocket, his eyes roving from her shirt to her skirt to her bare legs much the same way Warren’s had. She liked this better. “In fact, I like you just the way you are.”

  He really was quite cute with that soon-to-grow-out-of-control hair and big wide shoulders. Serial killer or sheriff? Hmm. While the sheriff’s appreciative perusal gave her a tingle, it was nothing to the visceral punch of Nick’s gaze on her. Or his tongue in
her mouth and his hands up her skirt. Still, one should always have a backup plan in case the first one didn’t work out. Hadn’t she told Nick that this very morning?

  Something flashed behind the sheriff’s head. Warren at his window blinds. He’d flipped them closed. But he’d looked, she knew he’d looked. And she hoped he was jealous. Or something. Some emotion that didn’t involve Cookie.

  Okay, she had to do something about that hint of residual anger festering just beneath her breastbone. It might soon get the better of her, and maybe right in front of the sheriff.

  Rescue came from the sound of a voice behind her. “Oh Bobbie.” This time she didn’t jump.

  Brax looked over her shoulder. “Mr. Fry’s calling you.”

  Mr. Fry. Warren’s call had made her forget about that prescription. The elderly man shouldn’t run like that. He was out of breath as he slid in between her and the sheriff.

  “Hi, Sheriff. Bobbie, I didn’t want you to forget”—he forced the bag into her hand—“theeeese.” Dragging out the word, making eye contact, letting his gaze slide surreptitiously in Brax’s direction. “And don’t forget that little something extra I gave you. In case.” Wink, wink.

  Oh my God. Her face flushed, though she knew Brax wouldn’t understand. And maybe a tiny bit of the flush wasn’t just embarrassment, but a tinge of warmth at the idea that Mr. Fry, and maybe others in Cottonmouth, thought she was a perfect match for the big sheriff. It was enough to make her sort of halfway forget about Warren telling her to lay off Cookie. Almost, but not quite. She shoved the bag into her purse. “Thanks so much, Mr. Fry. I’ll take care, I promise.”

  A date with the sheriff, a kiss from the serial killer, and now birth control pills. What more could a girl ask for?

  Well, there was that little thing about lightning striking the Cookie Monster.

  * * * * *

  Nick nursed his beer. It wasn’t that he had a thing against getting drunk, he just had a thing against getting drunk when he had to keep an eye on Bobbie and Brax.

  Which had been Kent’s idea when he’d dragged Nick and Harry Bushman, another old buddy from high school, out to the Rowdy Tavern. Kent claimed it was all over town that Brax was taking Bobbie to dinner there.

  The Rowdy Tavern, as deafening as its name proclaimed, was a long warehouse, bar in one half, restaurant in the other. Country music pounded out over the bar, and the tantalizing scent of grilling steaks hung like a fog in the air. Kent had found them a table on the edge of the floor with a clear view into the restaurant. With a clear view of Bobbie seated next to Brax, not across, the way she should have been. Dammit.

  “She’s had a migraine for a week.” Harry was on a rant, which was the only reason he’d ventured out of the house on a Sunday night against his wife’s wishes.

  Christ, Bobbie was laughing at something Brax had said, leaning close so that, if he was clever, the bastard could see right down her shirt. Nick yanked his gaze away and concentrated on Harry’s tale of marital woe.

  Kent threw a handful of nuts in his mouth, crunching them. “Maybe that has something to do with you impregnating her like clockwork every two years.”

  Harry’s bushy brows rose in an attempt to meet his receding hairline. His ever-growing bald spot seemed to have the equal but opposite effect on the growth of his eyebrows. “She likes having babies.”

  Kent snorted. “I saw the video of that last one making its appearance. And I don’t think she was screaming in ecstasy.”

  Nick had been relatively silent on the subject up to now. But Jesus. “You took a video of Sarah having the baby?”

  Harry shrugged. “Yeah. I took one of each of the kids. You know, so they’ll have a keepsake when they grow up.”

  Even Kent couldn’t handle that, his mouth twisting. “You’re giving your kids a video of their mother’s twat? That’s sick.”

  “Childbirth is the most natural thing in the world.”

  Right. What was not natural was the way Bobbie kept touching Brax’s hand, patting it, like it was part of whatever story she was telling.

  Dammit, concentrate on something else, anything else, Harry’s video even.

  “Well, I gotta say, a porno, it wasn’t.” Kent drew his hand down his face, pulling at his lower lids in parody of his disgust.

  Nick elbowed his arm. “I can’t believe you watched it.”

  “Neither can I.” He elbowed Nick back. “But that”—indicating Bobbie with a nod of his chin—“I could watch that in a video any time.”

  Dammit, he’d been doing real good at pretending they weren’t there until Kent pointed them out again. He couldn’t remember if she’d ever laughed with him like she was laughing with Brax.

  “I can’t believe you’re letting Brax have a go at her first.”

  Shit. “He can have her. She’s a pain in the butt.” But she tasted damn good.

  Kent leaned back and gave him a disbelieving smirk. “I’ve never seen you cave this easily.”

  “You know, you’re getting goddamn pushy about her.” Nick shoved the bowl of peanuts closer to Harry. “What difference does it make to you?”

  Kent spread his hands in surrender. “None, buddy, just thinking about your lack of sex life. Doesn’t your dick fall off after a certain amount of time?”

  “Yeah, and maybe you should know. When was the last time you got it?”

  The man smiled the serpent’s smile. “I like to take my pleasures elsewhere. Say at least fifty miles away so they don’t try following you home.”

  When Nick had gone hunting fifty miles from home, he’d ended up with Cookie Beaumont, the she-wolf and her pack of lies. And she had followed him back.

  “So that’s why you’re not going for Bobbie yourself, too close to home?” Thank God Harry was the one to ask the question that had been on Nick’s mind.

  Kent buffed his fingernails on his flannel shirt. “I happen to have the hottest little filly over in Red Cliff, so I’m not in the market right now.”

  Kent, for all his blustering, hadn’t dated anyone in town in the entire year that Nick had been home. They’d done their share of making the rounds of the Red Cliff hot spots, but Kent had never picked up a girl. Maybe this filly was a little more to him than he claimed she was.

  “But don’t wait too long or I’ll give you a run for your money with Ms. Bobbie Jones.”

  The threat struck Nick as entirely empty.

  And dammit, he didn’t care if she was laughing way too much with Brax. He looked to Harry to break the mood, since Kent had a one-track mind. Old Harry seemed to be sinking down into his beer. Nick nudged him under the table. “Don’t go getting sloppy on us, you haven’t even finished your first one.”

  “Sorry, just thinking.”

  “She’ll come round. She always does.” Nick felt a little sorry for Harry. He wasn’t hen-pecked, just married with three kids.

  “It’s not just Sarah. It’s the store. I don’t know how we’re going to make the rent the first of the month. And if things don’t pick up soon...” He let the thought trail off.

  Shit. Poor Harry. “Ask Jimbo to cut you a little slack.”

  Harry snorted. “Yeah, right, Magnanimous Jimbo.” He cut himself off, looking around as if someone might have overheard the sarcasm laced with anger. “Been there, done that. The last two months. Next step is borrowing money from Sarah’s parents.”

  Kent punched Harry’s arm. “That’s really why she’s cut off your rations, isn’t it?”

  “Her dad can be a...”

  “A peckerwood.” Kent had just the right word for the occasion.

  “Yeah. But that store’s been in my family for sixty years.” Harry didn’t want to be the one who failed at it. Nor, Nick knew, did he want to ask his father, happily settled into Florida retirement, to bail him out. “It’s that damn minimall. We were doing fine till they opened that department store Who pays thirty-five bucks for a nice white shirt when you can buy it down there for ten? Even if it does fall
apart after the first wash.”

  Jimbo and his damn minimall. It wasn’t just Harry and his clothing store. If you didn’t have a liquor license like the Rowdy Tavern or sell greasy home-style food like Mavis’s Cooked Goose or make the best damn milkshakes for fifty miles like Johnson’s, you didn’t stand a chance in Cottonmouth. Jimbo owned them all, and the minimall sucked them dry.

  Still, what Harry didn’t seem to get was that no one was buying white shirts anymore, unless it was a T-shirt. “Maybe you need to reevaluate what you’re stocking, Harry.”

  “You don’t understand. I’m over-inventoried. I can’t change the stock until I sell what I’ve got so that I can have enough money to pay off the old. I’m maxed out with my suppliers as it is.” In his misery, Harry guzzled half his beer. “I fucked up royally, I know that, but Jimbo didn’t have to turn the screws.”

  “God, you’re making me want to cry here, Harry. Next beer’s on me. And will you get a look at that?” Kent pointed none too covertly across the dining room, changing the subject abruptly, to Harry’s relief and Nick’s chagrin.

  Brax was pulling back Bobbie’s chair, like an ever-loving goddamn gentleman. As she rose, damn near half her naked thighs were visible in that leather mini-skirt. And four inches of bare midriff. Nick salivated as if she were a juicy bit of steak. She tucked her tiny matching blue purse under her arm and headed off to the ladies’ room with a sashay that jumbled Nick’s insides.

  And Brax had not been looking anywhere close to eye level as he watched her. Christ, the bastard really did want her.

  Nick sure as hell didn’t want him to get there first. He didn’t want Brax to get there at all. Not that he’d admit it to Kent, but yeah, he had one hell of a jealous streak regarding Bobbie Jones.

  Chapter Nine

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re so interested in Cookie Beaumont.”

  Could it be because Bobbie’d been dumped by her husband even though Cookie wasn’t getting a divorce? Sure, Cookie said she was afraid of Jimbo. Bobbie didn’t believe a word out of that woman’s mouth. “I’m not interested in her.”