Her gut said that Nick would never leave her lonely.
“Jump, Bobbie. I’ll catch you, I promise.”
She let the lip she’d sucked between her teeth plop out. Take a chance. Stop playing it safe.
“All right,” she whispered, “I’ll jump.”
Then she clamored over the gear shift, squeezed past the steering wheel into his lap, and sealed her fate with a kiss.
“So,” she said, lips to lips, “now that you’ve asked me to marry you, can I see your paintings?” Maybe someday she’d tell him she’d already sneaked a peek.
He chuckled against her mouth. “Don’t you want to watch Buffy?”
“No.” She nibbled his bottom lip.
He grinned and pulled back to look down at her. “How about your favorite movie, Laura?”
She punched his arm lightly. “No.”
“All right. You can see the paintings. But the price is your posing for the next one.”
She tilted her head, a little thrill racing up her spine. “With or without clothes?”
He merely raised one adorably devilish eyebrow.
Epilogue
Across the town square, Mayor Wylie Meade wound through the crowd of festival-goers, his large frame tucked into an extraordinarily flexible set of lederhosen. A long feather bobbed on the hat perched atop his head.
In the center of the square, on a makeshift stage, three accordion players squeezed out a rousing polka. On the portable dance floor in front, couples dressed in colorful national costumes flowed across the fake parquet, their heels adding another dimension to the music on stage.
Nick was sure he’d been dropped into a Lawrence Welk nightmare. Bobbie stuck her hand in his and pulled him past the row of food stands. Boiled cabbage perfumed the air, the spice of meatballs and other ethnic delights layered beneath it. Nick had never enjoyed a day more. He’d never enjoyed a woman more. And he’d go on enjoying this one for the rest of his life.
He knew he was grinning like a sap. A sap in love. He didn’t give a damn as long as she was his.
“Nick,” Mayor Meade called, fluttering his hand above a boisterous sea of unattended teenagers.
Nick tucked Bobbie beneath his arm, then wiped away a touch of mustard from her lip, the remains of her Polish hot dog. He kissed the tip of her nose. Life couldn’t be better. Even if Wylie Meade was bearing down on him like a runaway Mack truck.
“What do you suppose he wants?” Nick muttered.
“Rumor around town has it he wants to ask you a favor.” Bobbie stuck her ice cream cone in front of his mouth for a lick. Lord, the things that woman could do with ice-cream on her tongue.
“Christ, a favor?”
“Be nice,” she whispered as the mayor waddled closer, “and I’ll be very nice to you tonight.”
“If you put it like that.” Happy was not a word he’d used to describe his life, until Bobbie. The smile on his face was no phony.
Wylie Meade’s voice boomed out of him. “Nick, my boy, so glad you made it to our little festival.” The mayor slapped him on the back. After Brax revealed Cookie’s scheme, Nick had, somehow, become the man of the hour.
“Bobbie wouldn’t let me miss it. She’s taking all the credit for the magnificent decorations.” Nick let his gaze roam the gay square. Three-dimensional cardboard accordions and facsimiles of Lawrence Welk hung from strings anchored in the surrounding trees. Streamers of gold and green flapped in the warm June breeze. Next week they would come down to make way for the July Fourth parade, but for now, Bobbie beamed.
“She’s done a bang-up job, stepping in after...the Cookie Calamity.”
Nick almost laughed, but erased the smile seconds short of disaster.
Wylie Meade was totally serious. “This town will forever be grateful to the two of you.”
Nick wasn’t completely sure why. He’d almost gotten the two of them killed. Brax was the one who saved the day. But he feigned a sheepish grin. “Shucks, it was nothing, Mayor.”
Bobbie elbowed him in the ribs, then turned a magnificent smile on the mayor. “You had something you wanted to ask Nick?”
Wylie cleared his throat and puffed out his chest, only to exhale with a grunt as Eugenia Meade’s shriek cut across the music. “Wylie Meade, don’t you dare start without me.”
For one moment, the square fell silent, the only sound being Eugenia’s stertorous breathing as she picked up her skirts and careened across the tramped lawn.
Decked out in full costume, Eugenia clung to her husband’s arm for support as she gulped air like a fish. The seams of her green suede dress threatened to give way, and her white blouse, buttoned to the collar and fastened with a brooch, appeared to be strangling her. Her cheeks blazed red with exertion.
Bobbie raised a brow at him. Nick drew the line at giving Eugenia Meade mouth-to-mouth.
“All right, I’m ready,” Eugenia gasped.
Wylie did the throat-clearing and chest-puffing again, then said with theatrical majesty, “It would be Cottonmouth’s honor, and my personal pleasure, if you would consent to supply a painting or two for the renovated city hall.”
Hell. That was the last thing he’d expected. He wondered how many nights Wylie would have to go without sex for this one. Ah, that was his secret; he wanted to forego Eugenia’s favors.
Three weeks ago he would have told the mayor, and Eugenia, to stuff it. But that was before Bobbie came to town. Now, her eyes danced with excitement, and she bounced on her open-toed sandals.
Eugenia stared at him with beady, expectant eyes. What the hell was he supposed to make of that? “Mayor, I’m really not sure my work will fit a city hall atmosphere.”
“Of course, they will.” Wylie’s voice boomed megaphone loud.
“Have you ever seen them?” Nick ventured.
Eugenia could no longer keep her mouth shut. “Wylie, you’re botching the whole thing. Of course, we’ve seen your paintings, dear. We drove up to that big bookstore they have in Red Cliff. And there were your calendars. Though why they’re selling calendars in June, I’ll never know. What am I going to do, for heaven’s sake, put them in the drawer for six months?” She tapped Bobbie’s arm. “A little secret, I always buy mine on January first, half off then, you know.” She switched her attention back to Nick. “We loved what we saw, and of course, Wylie wants to put them in the big hall.” Big was in the eye of the beholder. The Taj Ma’Wylie was no Taj Mahal.
“I’m thinking four paintings, at least, aren’t you, dear?” Already having made her decision, Eugenia didn’t wait for the mayor’s agreement. She leaned forward, pursing her lips close to Nick’s ear. “But do you think we can skip the bare breasts? After all, school children do tour the big hall, you know.”
Nick raised a brow. “I think I could add a nice gossamer overlay without compromising my art.”
“Oh, you’re such a good boy. And I’ve been wanting to tell you what a lovely job you’ve done with your mother’s garden. She’d be so pleased.”
Not if she knew the amount of roadkill that was still buried there. Maybe it would make good fertilizer. “Thank you, ma’am. Bobbie helped me plant the flowers this week.”
Bobbie looked at him. Excessive politeness was not his thing, but with Eugenia Meade, what else could a man do?
“You’ve got to plant bulbs, too. Your mother adored bulbs.”
“Yes, Mrs. Meade.”
Bobbie was now openly smiling at him. He’d get her. Tonight. Maybe this afternoon. Maybe...
Eugenia didn’t even give him a chance for a decent fantasy. “But what I really wanted to talk about was that whole horrible Cookie Calamity. You were so brave, my dear.” Eugenia clasped Bobbie’s hand in both hers, squeezing, then reached impulsively for Nick’s, bringing him into the fold, so to speak. “And you, sir, why you’re the town hero, saving us all from that horrible Kent English and that woman. Why, I never liked her from the moment she came to town. She was shifty. I’m sure they were planning to mu
rder us all in our beds after they got done with Poor Jimbo.”
If Wylie Meade was a Mack truck, Eugenia was a locomotive. Nick felt himself slipping into the Twilight Zone. From local serial killer to local hero in one short week.
“And to think that English boy was the one throwing that dreadful roadkill in your yard just to make sure we all thought there was something sinister about you. Why, I hear the sheriff retched when they searched the trunk of that boy’s car. Seems he wasn’t too good at cleaning up after himself.” She tittered as if she’d said something clever. “But I never believed the stories about you, of course. Why, just before poor Jimbo got whacked, I was telling Marjorie Holmes that everyone was misjudging you.” Eugenia stopped only because she’d long since run out of breath and her eyes had started to bulge.
Bobbie squeezed his fingers painfully. “As I recall, Mrs. Meade, you were ready to tell the sheriff that Nick had kidnapped that little girl up in Saskatoon.”
Eugenia gasped and put her hand to her chest. “Why, I do believe you’ve gotten me mixed up with someone else, dear.” She patted Bobbie’s arm, who jerked away from the touch. Not that Eugenia noticed. “I did my best to stop those stories, believe you me.”
Bobbie’s eyes fired with that protective light Nick knew so well. She opened her mouth to do further battle on his behalf.
He laced her fingers with his and cut her off. “I appreciate your taking my side, Mrs. Meade, believe you me.”
The woman didn’t notice the sarcasm, but the corner of Bobbie’s mouth rose in acknowledgment.
“And did you hear Kent English is spilling his guts about every nasty little thing he’s done since he was a boy? He even admitted he got poor Mary Alice Turner pregnant. Why he allowed you to take the blame all these years, we’ll never know.”
Bobbie tugged, shooting him a look that said she’d believed him all along. But why the hell hadn’t Brax said something?
Because it was the past. Done. They’d silently agreed on that the night Kent tried to kill him.
Intent on her gossip, Eugenia didn’t notice the signals between them. “And why that boy’s bothering to clear it all up is beyond me. I hear tell the sheriff can’t shut him up now that he’s started talking. I wonder if somehow he’ll use the Mary Alice debacle to go for some kind of insanity plea. You know, as if that unfortunate event mentally unhinged him and everything else he did was as a result.” Not giving anyone a chance to contradict her, Eugenia launched into a new thought. “But I hear the two of you are getting married. We’re all so delighted.”
Bobbie raised their clasped hands. “As soon as the divorce is final.”
She wasn’t hiding anything anymore. She’d moved into his house and thumbed her nose at the puritans of Cottonmouth. Eugenia liked her anyway. Everyone did.
“Oh, and speaking of your husband, I’ve heard that poor Beau is renting him space in his garage.”
Bobbie met Nick’s glance. “He and Beau are going to do classic car restoration. Since Jimbo was so good to him in the will, Beau’s starting his station up again.”
“I thought your husband was an accountant.”
She rolled her eyes at him. “Nobody is an accountant. It’s just a profession. He loves old cars. He’ll do fine.”
Too long out of the limelight, Eugenia started her locomotive rolling again. “Well, and isn’t there that law that you can’t profit from your crimes. So that woman—”
“The Cookie Monster,” Bobbie supplied.
Eugenia gasped and dragged Bobbie’s free hand between her ample breasts. “My dear, that is absolutely perfect. Why didn’t I think of that?” By noon, she would have convinced herself—and the town—that she had. “Well, I don’t think that woman will end up getting a thing. And what can she do with it in prison anyway? She’ll probably end up being some Big Mama’s bitch.”
“Eugenia!” Wylie roared.
Eugenia flapped a fleshy hand. “It’s true, that’s what happens. I see it on TV all the time. Now Beau gets everything. The man’s a godsend. As poor Jimbo’s executor, he’s forgiving all the back rents. The Cookie Monster”—she beamed at the use of the newly claimed name—“was the one doing all the harassing anyway, not Jimbo. Why, Harry Bushman told me she was in there the week before Jimbo died, threatening Harry no less, saying she’d make sure Jimbo kicked him out. After sixty years of Bushman’s being there. Well, I never.” She broke off long enough to fan herself in disgust. “Jimbo wouldn’t have done it. Why, the minimall was all the Cookie Monster’s idea in the first place. She pushed Jimbo into building it against his better judgement. But that Beau”—Eugenia fluttered her eyelashes—“he’s a fine one. He’s organizing a committee to renovate Cottonmouth.”
“Renovate,” Bobbie squeaked. “I like it the way it is. So Ozzie and Harriet.” Nick had caught her sneaking a few Ozzie and Harriet reruns.
“It’ll still be Ozzie and Harriet, dear, but he’s got marketing plans that will help some of our businesses get back on their feet. The man’s a fountain of ideas.”
“What about a coffee house?” Nick decided to start Bobbie’s ball rolling.
Eugenia tipped her head. “We already have a coffee shop.”
Wylie shook her arm. “Coffee house, Eugenia. It’s different. Like a Starbuck’s.”
“Bobbie’s already talked to Beau about that place on the corner of Main and Broadway,” Nick supplied.
“Mavis is helping me with the start-up.” There was a little problem of on-hand cash. Bobbie would have had to use everything she had, with nothing left over for working capital until the cash flow improved. See, he was learning accounting terminology.
“Oh my dear, that’s wonderful. When are you two going to start having babies?” Everyone cleared their throat, looked up, down, around. Eugenia didn’t get it. “Goodness, what am I saying, you’re not even married yet. But did you hear that Mavis is letting Beau move back into the house? They’re going to renew their vows.” She clapped her hands to her cheeks. “You could have a double wedding.” She grabbed Wylie’s arm. “Darling, wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
Nick thought about puking.
Suddenly, Eugenia raised a hand, flapping vigorously. “Oh yoo-hoo, Patsy, we’re over here.”
Patsy had foresworn the native Accordion Festival costume. In white skirt and red blazer, she looked like...a real estate agent. Poor woman.
Ignoring Eugenia, Patsy grabbed Bobbie’s arm. Her lipstick leaked into the lines fanning out around her mouth. “I have found the perfect little dress for Sunday service down at the church thrift. You must come immediately and try it on.”
Nick thought of the little number Bobbie had worn to church, oh, about two weeks ago. Personally, he thought that was perfect.
“Now?” Bobbie asked, while Eugenia huffed at losing center stage.
“It’s only $4.99,” Patsy rushed on, excitement adding extra wrinkles around her mouth. “It’s got a blue tag, and today is fifty percent off blue tags. Someone’s going to snap it up.”
“But—”
“You can’t beat this, Bobbie, I’m telling you. A pretty mock turtleneck. It’s long.” She looked at Bobbie’s long legs, totally bare to midthigh where her short shorts ended. “Calf length,” she whispered, as if she expected only Bobbie to hear or understand. “And since all the essentials will be covered, I don’t suppose the reverend will mind the leopard print.”
Nick wouldn’t mind seeing Bobbie in animal print. Maybe some matching leopard panties.
But hell, they were talking about a dress, for church, with Patsy Bell Sapp’s approval. Leopard print. It could mean only one thing—Bobbie had been accepted.
Eugenia pursed her lips. “Leopard won’t do for Jimbo’s memorial service.” Which was tomorrow morning, attendance by all required.
“You’re right, Eugenia.” Patsy tapped her fingers to her chin, assessing Bobbie’s figure as if she’d suddenly morphed from real estate agent to fashion designer. “Dear, you�
�re going to have to come down to the church right away. Eugenia, we’ll need your help.” Patsy winked, her lashes sticking a moment. “Eugenia’s a whiz with a sewing needle. There’s a dress that might be suitable. But it’s going to need taking in.”
Then Patsy turned her full force on Nick. She hadn’t spoken to him directly in over twenty years. “Young man, do you have a suit?”
“Yes, ma’am.” Damn, wasn’t he lucky he did, or he’d be down at the church thrift with them.
“Then we’re off.” The women grabbed Bobbie’s arms, forcing Nick to let go of her.
In the middle of the town square, an ancient crooner took the stage. Mayor Meade stood beside him watching Bobbie being dragged off by the Hair Ball’s bouffant twins. Bobbie turned one last time, her lips round with a silent scream. Patsy whispered in her ear.
“Well, boy,” the mayor said, “how about I buy you a beer?”
“I do feel a bit parched, Mayor. A beer would be nice, thanks.”
Nick realized he’d finally come home. Bobbie had brought him there.
###
Don’t miss the sequel to She’s Gotta Be Mine! You’ll get Brax’s story in Fool’s Gold!
Cover Design by Rae Monet Inc
Goldstone, Nevada: It’s not your typical vacation getaway.
Sheriff Tyler Braxton hightails it out of Cottonmouth to Goldstone for a little R&R, when his sister puts out a distress call. Suddenly, instead of vacationing, Brax is having to offer advice to the lovelorn! And to top it off, he has to start his own investigation on his sister’s behalf: Is his brother-in-law having an affair with the local erotic author?
Simone Chandler has found her haven in Goldstone; she loves the forsaken town and its lovable but somewhat beleaguered residents. With a thriving Internet business penning made-to-order erotic fantasies, some of her friends in Goldstone just happen to be her clients, too. The problem, the hunky sheriff from out of town wonders if she’s not only writing stories for his brother-in-law, but acting them out with him, too.
She's Gotta Be Mine (A sexy, funny mystery/romance, Cottonmouth Book 1) (Cottonmouth Series) Page 30
