Christian watched Lolly through the screen as Harvey thumped his tail and displayed a doggie grin when he bothered to raise his head at all.  Dribbles of slobber rested in the corners of the canine’s mouth as his furry tail beat a tattoo in welcome.  And she thought the mutt was a watchdog?

     Lolly was up to her elbows in suds washing dishes, singing and swaying to a Faith Hill tune.  She looked so cute and young in her white short shorts, halter-top, and ponytail all askew.  He wondered how long it would take her to realize she was being watched.  As a cop her vulnerability disturbed him, but as a male he reveled in the time it gave him to feast on the sight of her luscious, rounded derriere swaying in time to the music.  What he was about to do was a huge mistake, but he was going to do it anyway.  His soul desperately needed it.  When he opened the screen door Harvey butted his hand in welcome and then plopped on the floor.

     Some small noise alerted Lolly that she had company.  The hair stood up on the back of her neck as she carefully gripped the butcher knife she'd been washing. Her holster was locked in the desk.  The knife was the best she could do on a moment’s notice.  She slowly turned around.  On one level she was relieved when she saw her visitor in his black T-shirt and tight jeans.  There was no physical danger from this man, but she was afraid he presented an even greater threat.

     “Are the kids here?” he asked.  She managed to shake her head.

     “Are they coming back anytime soon?”  Another negative nod.

“Are they going to be here anytime tonight?”  She shook her head again as she clutched the knife.  It dripped suds all over her bare feet, but she didn’t notice the pool of water accumulating around her feet.  Incapable of coherent speech, she watched as he closed the wooden door and locked it with a deafening click.  If she didn’t say something soon –- she wasn’t going to be able to back out of what was going to happen. 

     He walked toward her.  She'd always wondered how a man that massive could move so quietly.  Before he reached the sink he unhooked the Velcro holster strapped to his leg and placed the gun on the kitchen table.  It looked out of place next to the vase of daisies.

     “I need you.”  That was all he said before he took the knife from her hands.

 

He's sexy, he's funny and he loves dogs.  What more could a girl want?

Dr. Olivia Alvarado, town vet and part-time coroner of Port Serenity, Texas is nobody's fool.  So when Sheriff C.J. Baker charged into her life, the last thing Livy expected was a broken heart.  She should have known better.  He seemed absolutely perfect, but nobody's ever perfect.

Finding out that C.J. was already married just about killed Olivia.  But there's a lot she doesn't know about C.J.'s marriage - like the fact it was for Selena's protection.  Now that Selena is safe and he's safely divorced, C.J. wants Olivia back.

When they're thrown together on a bizarre case, Livy can't avoid spending time with C.J. - or falling for him all over again.  But then Selena shows up in Port Serenity.

So what's a girl to think?  

 

“Hey there, sweetheart.  Mind if I join you?”

     Dr. Olivia Alvarado switched her attention from her salad to the impossibly handsome man with the shaggy sun-kissed hair, mile-deep dimples, and sea-green eyes that twinkled with humor and mischief.

“As a matter of fact, I do.”  She slammed her hands on the table.  “I don’t think my shots are current,” Olivia hissed.  “So get lost!”

     She really didn’t expect her unwanted visitor to take a hike; after all, the man’s head was as hard as a granite slab.  But she did harbor a slight hope he’d accede to the southern manners his mama had tried to thump into his cranium and go find his own table.

     But instead of skedaddling, the twit responded with a boyish grin that had probably stopped girls’ hearts all over south Texas.  No!  No!  No way!  Once burned, twice shy!  And from experience, Olivia knew this guy was capable of inflicting third degree burns of the heart.

     Daisy’s Diner wasn’t full – there were tables everywhere – so why did he want to sit with her?  “I’m as serious as a heart attack.  Go someplace else for your shot of caffeine.  I hear they changed the coffee grounds at the court house,” she proclaimed.

     Sheriff C.J. Baker chuckled as he plopped on the vinyl bench next to her and scooted over so close his thigh was plastered against hers.  “Sorry, can’t do that.  I want to talk to you.”

     Olivia moved toward the window and dredged up her best deep-freeze attitude.  “Unless it’s in regard to my official capacity as county coroner, I have absolutely nothing to say to you.”  She put on her best saccharine sweet smile.  “But maybe I need to speak slower for you to understand.  Get lost.”  Olivia drew out the short command into a polysyllabic order and turned her head.

     There was a repeat of that irritating chuckle.  “Believe me, I’ve gotten the picture.  You won’t answer your phone, you’ve ignored my e-mail, and, believe it or not, I spotted you when you scooted into the Tax Assessor’s office.  Darlin’, my mama didn’t raise a dummy.  I know avoiding when I see it.”  He laughed like he had a delightful secret.  “Actually, I thought the Tax Assessor thing was funny.”

     As far as Olivia was concerned, nothing associated with C.J. Baker tickled her humor bone.

     He picked up her hand and drew tingly little circles on her palm.  “Livy, sweetheart.  We have to straighten out some things.  Please have dinner with me.”

Olivia jerked her hand away.  “When hell freezes over!  I am not, and read my lips if you’re having trouble grasping this concept, I will not have an affair with a married man!” 

Oops, that must have come out a little louder than she expected.  Several heads turned in their direction.  Good grief!  The Port Serenity grapevine would have a field day with this one.

Attention apparently didn’t bother the good sheriff because he simply smiled, and what a smile he had.  In his chambray shirt, tight faded jeans, well-worn boots and shiny brass star he could have easily been cast in a remake of the Sundance Kid.  Oh boy!  Maintaining her immunity to the guy would take a resolve of steel, but Olivia intended to do exactly that.  One broken heart was plenty, thank you.

     He put his arm on the back of the seat and played with her ponytail.  “Funny, I thought I said dinner,” C.J. shrugged and put on his best cat in the creamery expression, “but an affair sounds good to me.” 

What’s a girl to do when life gets boring?  It’s time for a road trip!  Sexy grandma Marci Hamilton is a finalist in a multi-venue barbecue sauce contest sponsored by country/western music icon, J.W. Watson.  Straight off the bat, she encounters a hunky cowboy, Johnny Walker (aka the famous J.W. Watson).  He’s immediately smitten with the beautiful blonde and decides to keep his identity secret so they can pursue a relationship without all the junk related to fame.

Marci and Johnny’s adventure takes them to the epicenter of the Texas country music scene.  It’s a whirlwind of cooking, dancing, and loving.  Is she going to get burned or is she cooking up a Texas-size happy ending along with that award-winning barbecue sauce! 

Love is in the air – so of course somewhere down in Texas they lived happily ever after.

            The sun was shining, the humidity was low and the thermometer was barely over the eighty degree mark – all in all, it was a great day for a convertible, an unusual occurrence for Texas in late June.

            Marci and Sissy had Willie and Waylon crooning about love at the truck stop and a two pound bag of M&Ms was within reach – what more could a couple of grandmothers need for a road trip.  Oh yeah, a map might be nice, particularly since they were irretrievably lost, on a gravel road, in the middle of nowhere.

            “I can’t believe you didn’t pack a map.  Every car has a map.  It’s some kind of unwritten rule,” Marci exclaimed.  She was beyond exasperated and desperately trying to keep from smacking her sister.  They’d been driving around for what seemed like hours, and so far they hadn’t seen any sign of civilization.  It was cows, cows and more cows.  And every time Sissy gave her directions, they found themselves deeper in the labyrinth of farm-to-market roads that crisscrossed Texas.  To make matters worse, the low fuel light came on several miles back. 

            “Don’t get snotty with me.  You’re the one who got us lost in the first place.”  Sissy pushed her sunglasses up her nose and put on her pouty face. 

            Good Lord, that woman could be stubborn.  Marci took one deep breath and then another.  Deep breathing was good.  She wasn’t about to point out the only reason she was driving was that Sissy thought I-37 was the Indianapolis Speedway and the cute highway patrolman had expressed some serious doubts about her driving ability. 

            Focus.  Focus.  Focus.  They were obviously somewhere between Beeville and Seguin – and God only knew their exact location.  And since Marci was directionally impaired, and couldn’t read a map even if they had one, they were in a boatload of trouble. 

            She could just see it now.  Lolly would have them on the lost and presumed abducted segment of America’s Most Wanted before their bodies were cold.

            When in doubt, grab an M&M.  “Okay, let’s look at this logically.  If we turn around and follow the road back the way we came we’ll eventually find some pavement.  And pavement will mean a sign and a sign will lead to civilization.  That is if we have enough gas.”

            “And hopefully a Dairy Queen because I’m starving,” Sissy muttered.

            Marci threw the bag of candy into Sissy’s lap.  She was as bad as a kid.

            “Look at that.” Sissy squealed and pointed down the road.

            “What exactly am I looking for?”  Marci squinted in the direction her sister was indicating.

            “See that horse, well, there’s a man standing right next to it.  I’m sure he can tell us how to get back to town.”

            Considering the fact they were out in the middle of frickin’ nowhere, that might be a leap of faith - but hey, they were out of options.  And yes, in the far, far distance Marci could barely make out the silhouette of a man.

            “Let’s hope we haven’t found the local rapist,” Marci commented as she put the T-Bird in gear.  “I suppose you forgot the pepper spray, too.”

            Sissy answered by sticking out her tongue.

 

            Johnny had just finished patching a section of barbed wire fence when a red T-Bird convertible wheeled to a stop.  He lived in the boondocks for a reason – privacy.  If they were paparazzi they were about to get a piece of his mind. 

            But then he took a good look and liked what he saw.  The two women weren’t youngsters, but neither was he.  The young groupies who flocked to his concerts hadn’t jump started his libido since he was twenty-five, and that was several decades back.  

            The redhead was a bit much, but the platinum blonde was a classy looking lady.  He was about to jump the fence and see what they needed when he noticed they were in the middle of an argument.  Every time the redhead started to talk, the blonde shook her head.  Finally the blonde jumped out of the car and slammed the door so hard the vehicle rocked. 

            That one had a temper.

            As she stomped closer, he could see that she was beautiful – tall and willowy, with shoulder length platinum blonde hair bordering on silver, and the prettiest blue eyes he’d ever seen.  And if her expression was any indication she was in a royal snit.

            “Howdy ma’am.  Can I help you with something?”  He tipped his Stetson further down over his eyes.  The last thing he wanted to deal with today was an ardent country/western fan. 

            She huffed out a big breath.  “We’re lost and it’s my sister’s fault,” she muttered something and stuck out her hand, “I’m Marci Hamilton and that’s my sister, Sissy.”  She pointed at the redhead.

            Johnny had been riding fence all day so he was dirty and sweaty, but he didn’t want to embarrass her by refusing to shake hands.  So he ruthlessly wiped his hand on his jeans before extending it.

            At the last minute he decided to go with his middle name.  “I’m Johnny Walker.” 

            “Johnny Walker?” 

            He could tell she was on the verge of giggling, and for some unknown reason that fascinated him.

            “Yeah, my daddy had a good sense of humor,” Johnny said.

            “Well Johnny Walker, could you tell us how to get back to town.  Any town will do, but we’d prefer one with a Dairy Queen.”

            “Yes ma’am, I can sure do that.  In fact I can do you one better.  If you ladies will stay here I’ll ride back and get my pickup.  Then you can follow me into Live Oak.”    He could tell she wasn’t quite sure about his invitation, so he resisted the grin he felt coming on.  Something about this woman was enticing, and he hadn’t been tempted by a woman in a very long time. 

            And the best thing of all was she didn’t recognize him.  Hot damn!  Maybe it was his lucky day.

     Whap.  Whap.  Whap.  The wipers made a valiant, but fruitless, effort to keep up.  The overwhelming whiteness was as strangely hypnotic and beautiful as it was relentless and deadly.  For miles Honey had had her eyes glued to the highway fog line.  Now, even that lifeline had disappeared under the drifts, and it had been at least an hour since she’d last spotted a snowplow.  To make matters worse - Honey was afraid she was lost. 

     If she’d had half a brain, she would have stopped at the last village to wait out the storm.  But no, when Honey Campbell was on a mission she didn’t let anything get in her way – not even the blizzard of the century – and that’s exactly what they were calling this abomination.  If she could make it another thirty miles, she’d be snug and cozy in Bitsy’s living room. 

     Thirty miles.

     Thirty short miles.

     Who did she think she was kidding? 

     At the speed she was going, thirty miles would take her two weeks.  Then before Honey could blink an eye, her car did a one-eighty and she ended up facing the opposite direction. 

     One by one, Honey pried her white knuckled fingers off the steering wheel.  She couldn’t decide whether she wanted to scream, moan or curse - so she resorted to beating on the steering wheel. 

     “I could use a little help here.”  She didn’t expect an answer.  Hildegarde, her guardian angel and childhood imaginary friend, never said a word, but she’d extricated her charge from more than one scrape.

     As usual, the response was silence.  So what to do?  Plan A was a bust - there wasn’t a house for miles, Honey’s cell wasn’t working, and even the devil was too smart to be out in this blizzard.  As far Plan B went, she was fresh out of ideas.   

     Get a grip, girl!  Bad weather wasn’t going to get the best of a Campbell.  Her family came across the Atlantic on the Mayflower.  Signing up for that voyage took the guts of a river boat gambler.  So, yes sir, she’d find a way out of this or die trying.  And “die” wasn’t the operative word.  All she had to do was come up with a miracle.

     Tap, tap, tap.  “Aargh!” Honey screeched.  Someone, or something, was beating on the window.  Should she or shouldn’t she open it?  That was a no-brainer, what did she have to lose?  She hit the electric window and found herself nose-to-nose with a grizzled old man wearing a red down jacket and black leather chaps.  Had Santa joined a biker gang? 

     “Hey there, little lady.”  He rubbed his scraggly white beard.  “Looks like you’re in a spot of trouble.”

     No kidding!  “Yes sir, I am.  If you could get me to the Ironstone Condominiums near North Conway, or even to civilization, I’d be forever grateful.”   

     He chuckled.  “I’m sure you would be.  Put on your warm woolies and come with me.”  He indicated a snowmobile decorated in twinkle lights with a ribbon bedecked wreath on the front. 

     Where had that come from?

     “Were you driving behind me?” Honey asked.  He didn’t answer so she continued.  “I’m Honey Campbell.”  She extended her hand.

     “Glad to meet you.  You can call me Pete,” her newest best friend said with a wink.  “I know a guy who lives a couple of miles down yonder.  Grab your smallest bag and we’ll strap it on the back of Jenny,” he said, patting the side of the snowmobile.  “Yep, he’ll be glad to help a pretty little thing like you,” he chuckled as he helped Honey onto the back of the big machine.  “Real glad.”

     So what did he mean by that?  Scenes from every Grade B horror movie Honey had ever seen flitted through her brain – shades of Freddie Kruger and the Texas Chainsaw Massacre.  Did she have a choice?  Nope.  

     The drifts on the highway were at least two feet deep.  So, it was either freeze to death in her Beemer or to meet her maker on the back of a wannabe Harley without wheels.  And, if there was a road over yonder, she’d eat her new Italian boots.

     “Are you sure you know where you’re going?” she asked, seconds before they rocketed off.  Her screech was drowned out by the low growl of the engine.

     Twenty very cold minutes later, Honey spotted a sprawling farm house.  With its wrap-around porch, glittery lights and huge evergreen wreath it could easily have been the setting for a Norman Rockwell Christmas card

     “This place is beautiful.  Almost too pretty to be real,” she said, not sure whether Pete heard her or not.

     Obviously he did.  “It is right lovely,” he said, pulling close to the front porch.   

     “Run up and beat on the door.  Bang loud.  He might be in the back,” he instructed, handing Honey her duffel bag before making shooing motions with his hands.

     He didn’t have to tell her twice.  Her designer boots and coat were not made for the sub-zero weather.  Not to mention the fact her buns were freezing.  Honey lifted the heavy brass knocker and beat a tattoo that would wake the dead.  Hurry up, guy! 

     It took a second rat-a-tat before the door was flung open revealing an absolutely gorgeous man. 

     Oh.  My.  God! 

     It was Matt De Luca – her first love.  The guy she’d pledged to be with forever.  The person she’d abandoned at the first sign of trouble.  The man she’d never been able to forget. 

     This was the ultimate good new/bad news scenario.  The positive aspect was that Matt was even better looking than he was at seventeen.  The really, really horrendous thing was he had every reason to hate her - with an undying passion.  It didn’t take ten seconds for his astonishment to turn into a ferocious scowl, and that didn’t bode well for her current situation. 

     What was the probability of running into her ex-husband in the middle of a New England blizzard?  Any Las Vegas bookmaker worth his salt could tell you those were astronomical odds.

“Mother!”  It was amazing how that simple word accompanied by a whine was enough to give me a migraine.  And how could a kid who learned calculus at thirteen, be such a brat

     “Yes, Rayna.” 

     “I want to go back to California.  My Dad will let me live with him.”  She knew better than to stomp her foot, even though she was obviously tempted.

     “And I want a belly button ring.”

     Now we were at the crux of the matter.  My plan for the afternoon had been to veg out on Mama’s dock.  I had a glass of iced tea, a good book and a sun hat.  What more could a woman want?  Oh, right.  Privacy.  

     Reluctantly I put the novel in my lap.  “We’ve discussed this over and over.  By the end of summer I’ll make up my mind whether we’re returning to California, and don’t worry, you’ll get a fair shot at expressing your opinion.”

     “The kids around here are all dorks.”  Rayna wailed.  She'd made the same pronouncement every day since we landed at the San Antonio airport, and that had been three very long weeks ago. 

     In an effort to preserve my sanity, I'd chosen to ignore her.  It wasn’t a chapter in the good mothers’ handbook, but if it worked, it worked.  

     Not getting the kind of reaction she wanted, Rayna marched back to the house.  You had to give the kid credit; she was an expert at dramatic exits.  High dudgeon seemed to be de rigueur for a kid at the beginning of the tempestuous teens.  Please God I'd survive with my sanity intact. 

     And speaking of dramatic exits - why hadn’t I left California in a spectacular fit of pique instead of stealing away in the night?  When I found Dom with his secretary (how’s that for a cliché) doing the dirty on top of his Lucite desk, in front of God and everyone, I’d been sorely tempted to pull a Lorena Bobbit.  Really I had. 

Instead, I'd lapsed into my good girl persona and hired the best shark in town.  The good news was that my lawyer and CPA were better than his lawyer and accountant, and financially I was doing fine. Mentally, not so much.  

     It had been two years since that fateful day, and here I was - a peri-menopausal single mom with a kid whose sole goal in life was to have purple highlights and a belly button ring. 

     My divorce had been tempestuous, devastating and exhausting.   For many women a traumatic life change heralded an incredible weight loss, or conversely, you ended up with a waddle reminiscent of Dumbo.  During the height of the fiasco, everything I put in my mouth tasted like cardboard.  Needless to say, I fell in the former category. 

     Now I was back home testing Thomas Wolfe’s theory.  The way I figured it, if the experiment didn’t work out I could at least spend the summer eating comfort food, licking my wounds and deciding what I wanted to do when I grew up.  So far my only epiphany was that trooping back to the nest as a fifty-year old was more than a bit disturbing.     

 

     “Jazzy, sweetie, I’m going out to dinner with my bridge group,” Mama announced as she walked through the living room.

     “And I have a sleep over,” Rayna piped up.  “You remembered that, didn't you?”

     “Yes, I know.”  Rayna and the girl next door were inching their way toward friendship.  Making new friends would be the only thing that would change her attitude toward Meadow Lake.

     When Mama and Rayna left for their respective activities, I was stuck with a bowl of popcorn, an empty wine glass and a hankering for a Snickers.

     “Crumb,” I muttered, searching the kitchen cabinets for the bottle of wine I had seen a couple of days ago.  Did I drink it?  Grousing and muttering had become my favorite forms of communication.  

     As I grabbed the car keys from the foyer table I accidentally caught a brief glance in the mirror and realized  

I looked like a refuge from swap meet.  What in the world had happened to the woman who could confidently walk into a roomful of men wearing thousand dollar suits?  She was obviously on vacation, either that or she'd died.    

     Well, crap!  I pulled my hair up into a Bam Bam ponytail, smeared on some lip gloss and called it good.  I was only going to the grocery store – never mind that in Meadow Lake the HEB was the hub of civilization.   

     Sure enough, the parking lot was crammed with cars.  Were they having a run on dairy products?  Considering it was Friday night it was probably a run on beer – beer they’d take to a party, a party that I wasn’t invited to.  Yikes!  Self-induced pity was so disgusting. 

     In my previous life I hadn't had time for a wasted trip to the store, and habits die hard; so I grabbed a cart and went through a mental inventory of things we needed. 

     I headed straight to the candy aisle.  Pigging out on chocolate sounded a lot like paradise - Snickers, chocolate brownie ice cream with caramel, or maybe a package of double fudge Keeblers.  If I didn’t get on my current binge, my butt was going to end up broader than a barn door.  And what was with the barn door thing?  The longer I hung out in the Lone Star state the more I thought in terms of Texan-isms.

     So instead of whacking myself up side the head – oops, there it was again - I did the adult thing and wheeled my cart through the produce section.  The melons were plump.  The peaches were juicy.  The oranges, well, they were orange.  And there wasn’t a single solitary thing in the section that produced endorphins.  Those wonderful, wonderful, make me feel good endorphins.

     Skip that – I was on to the meat section where I found a huge display of menudo.  Only in south Texas could you find packages of cow’s stomach snuggled up next to a selection of pot roasts.  That was one delicacy I could skip.  Forever! 

     So far so good, I hadn’t seen a soul I recognized.  The wine and beer aisle was another story, indeed.  Friday night, small Texas town, six packs of Shiner Bock – yep, half the town was perusing the refrigerated beer counter - or at least the folks who weren’t Baptist.

     Oh well, in for a penny, and all that garbage.  I turned the cart toward my destination.  By that time I wasn’t picky; I’d take just about anything in a bottle with a cork. I had just grabbed a bottle of Fredericksburg white when I heard the voice – oh, what a voice.

     “Sunshine, what are you doing here?”

     My world was about to be turned topsy-turvy again.  Slowly, very slowly, I turned and there he was, Charlie Morrison in all his blond, still broad shouldered, handsome glory.  Speaking of wine, that man had aged like a fine merlot. 

     Through all the ups and downs of my life with Dom, I had never been able to get Charlie out of my mind.  Out of the blue I’d start thinking about him and wondering what he was doing.  Now there he was in front of me.  He was still gorgeous, and I was. . I was-

     “Hi, Charlie,” I squeaked.  “I’m picking up some wine.”  Like an idiot I held up the bottle, but before I could say anything else he enveloped me in a huge hug.  It was an action that drew stares from some of the people who were checking out the selection of Napa Valley products.   

     “It’s good to see you.”  He held me out at arm’s length and took a look.  “Are you here on vacation?”

     The rumor mill obviously hadn’t burped out my sordid story to the entire populace.

     “Well, sort of and sort of not.  I’m here testing the waters.”  I didn’t explain what I meant by that comment. 

     He laughed and I was delighted to discover he still had that wonderful belly laugh.  The one I remembered so well had missed so  desperately.  The memory of that sound had sustained me throughout my divorce.

     “Here,” he took the bottle out of my hand, put it in the basket and took command of the cart.  “Let’s check out and head over to the Coffee Cup, my treat.  We have a lot to get caught up on.”

     Charlie and my grocery cart were halfway to the check out stand before I could close my mouth much less summon a cogent thought.  And that thought was “Oh, my God!”

     In a fantasy world I would have looked like a million dollars – not a dollar store babe.

Shampoo, Rinse...And fall in love?

It seemed like an easy bet - all Washington lawyer Win Whittaker had to do was prove to his business partner that he could live the "simple life" in Magnolia Bluffs, Georgia, for one month.  With no extra cash or credit cards, Win is forced to get a job.  He might be a terrific lawyer, but his other skills are decidedly lacking.  So he applies for the only job he can find - shampoo girl at Kenni McAllister's salon, Permanently Yours.

Kenni is cautious around her handsome new employee, but she can't help being attracted by this charm.  The more time she spends with Win, the more she likes what she sees.  Of course, Kenni doesn't know about his other life, his real life.  But when a good friend desperately needs a lawyer, Win's deception is revealed.

Do the country girl and the city guy have a shot at love?  Win hopes so, because he's got a lot more than Georgia on his mind!

     “Okay folks, we have a busy day and we’re still short-handed, so,” Kenni paused, “if you’ll just hang in with me I promise we’ll get some help soon.”  Their daily staff meeting usually degenerated into a gossip fest.  What did she expect when the “staff” consisted of her two wackiest friends? 

     Raylene Yarborough was the darling of the blue-haired set – that girl could process the tightest perm in all Georgia.  And then there was Tallulah Tucker – just call her Toolie – an expatriate from a posh Atlanta salon and a favorite of the avant-garde girls.  

     “Hon,” Raylene popped her gum in rhythm to a Martina McBride tune, “have you managed to round up a date for the wedding?” 

     Kenni huffed a sigh.  Business always played second fiddle to chitchat and today wasn’t any different.

     “No, and how much shampoo do we need to order?”

     “Really?  Time’s a wastin’.”  Raylene fluffed her already big hair.  “Toolie hon, you know any eligible men?”

     “How about conditioner?” Kenni asked, even though she knew that changing the subject would be like turning back the tide.

     “Are you kidding?  All the guys in my acquaintance, sort of, you know, like bat for the other team.”  Toolie raised her eyebrows for emphasis.

     “What does our client list look like for today?”

     Raylene and Toolie were so busy trying to micro-manage her social life they didn’t bother to answer.

     “And everyone I know is either a redneck or married.  I don’t know which is worse,” Raylene said with a pout.

     “That’s it!  Read my lips.  I do not need a date for the wedding.  I don’t mind going by myself.”

     Raylene and Toolie stared, astounded at her audacious declaration.

     “And don’t look at me like that!”  The ditzy duo meant well, but when they started meddling they made her crazy.

     “Holy cow, would you take a gander at that.”  Raylene had wandered over to the front window and was watching something, or someone, in the park across the street.

     Toolie joined her friend.  “Now that’s what I call eye-candy.”

     “Kenni, come here girl, you’ve got to see this.”  When Raylene put her mind to something she was like a pit bull gnawing on a bone.  

     “No!  We have business to discuss.”

     Raylene and Toolie were practically plastered to the window.  “Well lookie, lookie.  Oh, my, goodness I’m about to swoon.”  When Raylene fanned her face Kenni realized she was fighting a losing battle.

     “Are you sure you don’t want a lookie-loo,” Toolie taunted. “Great black hair and that bad boy look you dig – T-shirt, tight jeans and scuffed boots.  Yummy, yummy.”  She emphasized the point by licking her lips.

     “Hush up.  You two sound like you’re in middle school.”

     “Ooh, dude.  He just stood up and is he ever built,” Toolie continued her running commentary.

     “I’m havin’ a flash of light.”  Raylene tapped a crimson nail on her forehead.

     “What you’re havin’ is a stroke.  Now, both of you get over here so we can finish our business.  We have to get this shop open.”

     “I’m gonna run over there and see if we can hire him to take you to the wedding.”

     “Over my dead body!”  Kenni was about panic.  They really would go for that kind of harebrained stunt.

     “Great idea,” Toolie agreed.  “Make sure he has all his teeth.  We can find him something to wear and make him presentable.  With that bone structure and the right clothes, he’ll look like a million bucks.”

     “No!” Kenni screeched.  “I don’t need a date, and if I did. . .” Her rant was interrupted in mid-stream by Raylene’s next comment.

     “Well ladies, it looks like we’re about to see him up close and personal.  He’s headin’ this way.”

     “Good grief!”  Kenni watched in fascination.  It felt like everything was moving in slow motion.

     The bell above the door tinkled its happy little greeting. Funny, Kenni thought, that used to seem cheerful, but now it sounded more like a psychotic elf banging on a tin can.

     “Ladies,” he said with the slightest hint of a southern accent.  She got the impression that if he’d been wearing a cap, he would have tipped it.

     “I think you might have a job for me.”

     Oh boy, if he could bottle that grin he’d make a million bucks.  Then his comment hit Kenni right between the eyes.  And if Raylene’s bugged out eyes were any indication, she’d received the same message.  Toolie merely giggled.

     “Uh well, um, it’s like this.”  Kenni had no clue what it was like.  Although she’d graduated cum laude with a degree in English she was being amazingly monosyllabic.

     “Well sugar, I don’t think. . .”

     The tall, dark and devastatingly handsome stranger interrupted Raylene.  “I know I can do the job.”  He winked.  “It couldn’t be that hard, and I’m sure the ladies will love me.”

     On that note, Kenni almost swallowed her tongue.  No way would she hop off to the wedding with a hired date – no matter how good looking.  “I’m sorry I don’t think so.”

     The man looked genuinely puzzled.  “Is it because I’m a guy?” 

     “Huh?”

     “Well, I mean, how hard can it be to give someone a shampoo?  I’m a hard worker and I don’t have very many vices.  How about this?  I work free for a couple of days.  That way you can try me out without it costing you a cent.”

     Glory Be!  The guy was applying for the shampoo girl job.  Talk about feeling like an idiot.  Even more disturbing was the fact that out of the blue, Kenni agreed with his plan.  

     “You’re on.  Work today for free and then we can talk.”  Where had that come from?  “Raylene, why don’t you get all his particulars like name, address, social security number, etc?”

     “Thanks, that’s great,” he said with the now familiar grin.

     Kenni hesitated before she took the hand he offered.  Her stomach did a back flip when she touched him.  Somehow, some way this decision was going to change her life. 

     She hoped to goodness this wouldn’t be a huge mistake.

Zack is a big city California detective who arrives in Magnolia Bluffs to investigate what's happening with the real estate development his family has invested in.  That means dealing with Liza Henderson, a widow and one of the partners...and very much a Southern lady.  But Liza's not your typical belle.  She's wacky, passionate, charming and unlike any woman Zack's ever met.

      This fiasco was getting better and better.  Liza was standing in front of the Magnolia Inn–aka, the Greyhound bus station clutching a sign she’d scribbled on the back of Josh’s homework.  Not to mention she was parked in a loading zone and Deputy Booty Carter was lurking around itching to give her a ticket. If this Maynard guy was smart, he’d take one look at her '83 F-250 pickup and get on the next bus back to the airport. 

      Mama said confidence could conquer anything.  Liza scowled, that was great advice coming from a woman who wore pearls to the Piggly Wiggly.  Take a deep breath.  Breathing was good.  She might look like Daisy Mae, but she was a respected member of the business community.  Heck, she even had a law degree.

So instead of hyperventilating, Liza visualized her favorite power suit and high, very high heels.  Considering she was barely five feet tall, she needed all the help she could get.  Forget about the shorts and T-shirt, she’d radiate self-assurance and professionalism.  Right-she’d do that right after she sold him the Brooklyn Bridge.

     Liza watched as the second bus of the morning rumbled up to the overhang and disgorged its passengers.  She held up her homemade poster hoping Maynard would notice his name. 

The first passengers were either too young, too old or the wrong gender.  A young mother grabbed a fussy toddler before the child could catapult out the door.  A couple of teens with gym bags and backward baseball hats elbowed each other as they ambled down the steps.  Her best bet was the middle-aged man with the briefcase, but he was eliminated when he broke into a smile and waved at a woman on the other end of the sidewalk. 

     Distracted for a moment by someone honking their horn, Liza spun back around just in time to glimpse a rumpled, drop dead gorgeous guy standing at the top of the steps.  He was wrestling with his laptop and a bulky carry-on, and as her fraternal twin Maizie would say - woo, woo, woo! 

Too bad he wasn't her boy.  Not only was he handsome, he was entirely too jock looking to be some two-bit wanna-be investigator, or whatever.  The guy was a devastating combo of Paul Newman blue eyes, Mel Gibson’s tush and George Clooney’s smile.  Someone should probably clue him in that Columbo was okay as a detective, but he was not a good fashion consultant.  

     An exuberant reunion at the bottom of the steps stopped the flow of passengers and allowed Liza a few more minutes to inspect him – late thirties with hints of silver in his dark hair, eyelashes to die for and a don’t mess with me frown on his face.  

     Liza was still checking out his oh, so sexy buns when she heard a crash that sounded too close to her truck for comfort.  Merciful heavens!  Some nitwit had just knocked the back bumper off her pickup.  And the same guy was barreling off in a cloud of black, oily smoke. 

     She took off at a sprint.  Maybe, just maybe, she could get a license plate number. 

“Stop!  Stop!” she screeched.  “That’s hit and run.”  Liza paused, gagging from the fumes. 

     What she wouldn’t give to have a full-fledged conniption fit, but she controlled that impulse and slammed the bumper into the bed of the truck.  Fantastic!  All she needed was some hubcaps and a minnow bucket, and every red-neck in town would be hittin’ on her.

     “Please, please tell me that sign you’re waving around doesn’t say Maynard.”  Mr. Handsome glaring at her as if he was expecting Snuffy Smith to appear in full Smokey Mountain regalia.  And no wonder, the man probably thought he’d stepped into the Twilight Zone. 

Mortified.  She was purely and simply mortified.  “Yes.”  Liza waved the sign, trying to control her coughing spell.  “Are you Maynard?” 

     The man’s lip was twitching as if he was trying to hide a grin.  He had dimples to die for and he was laughing at her!  How dare he chortle when she wanted to die from embarrassment?

     “Yeah, I’m Zack Maynard.”  

There were those dimples again.  No doubt about it, he thought she was a rube.  Before Liza could reply, he wandered toward the pile of luggage on the sidewalk.  Well, if that didn’t take the cake.  The first guy in forever to get her juices flowing, and he had her pegged as an Appalachian bimbo.  She'd admit she wasn’t dressed for a board meeting, but that didn’t give him license to laugh at her.   

       She should count to ten, take a deep breath and remain calm.  She could do it.  She knew she could.  Unfortunately, Liza hadn’t counted on the adrenaline surge. 

     Too bad she always managed to forget Mama’s old adage that even a fish wouldn’t get in trouble if it kept its mouth shut. Liza snatched the handle of the suitcase.  “Guess what, buddy, you’re not in San Francisco.  You’re in the South.  We have some unwritten rules.  People are polite and civilized, even if they’re grumpy.  We say 'yes sir and no sir'.”  Her voice rose as she waved her hands in the air.  “We smile at clerks.  We honk only if we’re about to hit someone.  We don’t jaywalk.  We exchange conversation in elevators.  And most importantly, we don’t laugh at strangers.  Now give me that suitcase, and let’s get out of here.”

     Even though Zack was dead on his feet, he still had enough on the ball to realize he’d seriously irritated the little elf who was trying to yank the suitcase handle out of his hands.   

Although the woman looked vaguely like Winona Ryder, the glare she was giving him was vintage Joan Crawford.  What in the world was she talking about-jaywalking, elevators, store clerks? 

     “Madam, please let go of my suitcase.  I saw your sign."  He indicated the piece of notebook paper she was still clutching.  "And I mistakenly thought you’d been sent to pick me up."  He enunciated every word like he was speaking to a not too bright three-year old.

     Liza went up on her tiptoes, but still couldn't get nose-to-nose with the guy.  “I am here to pick you up.  Let go of the stupid suitcase and we’ll leave.” 

     Zack had heard Southerners could be squirrelly, but this one beat all.  He was too busy wondering if she was going to smack him to notice that a policeman had ambled up. 

     “Is there a problem here?” the man drawled. 

     Cop with a gut and a gun–hmmm.  Sanity returned with a vengeance.  Zack dropped the piece of luggage.             

     "No problem, we were just discussing who would carry the bag, and my little friend wants the pleasure.  So I’ll let her."  He turned to Liza.  “Grab the stuff and let’s get going,” he instructed, handing her his carry-on.

Never one to leave things alone, he volleyed another shot, “Be careful, I don’t want anything broken.”  He turned so she wouldn’t see his grin, but he did hear her growl.  She actually snarled at him.  How about that? 

“Is that pickup your vehicle?” he asked.   

     It didn’t take eyes in the back of his head to realize she was giving a deadly glare.  She’d grabbed the two suitcases and was trying to catch up to his long-legged stride.  He had to give her an A+ for determination.  

     “Maynard, wait up,” she panted. 

     She had him at a disadvantage because she hadn’t divulged her name.  And he had better manners than to use “hey, you.”    

     “What do you have in here, bricks?” she groused as she lugged the heavy suitcase down the sidewalk. 

      Zack debated whether to remind her it had wheels.  That would be the gentlemanly thing to do, and with her temper in high dudgeon she'd probably never think of it, but the devil on his shoulder won out.  This woman was incredibly entertaining, and in the past day and a half, he hadn’t had too many chuckles.  When Zack glanced back, he noticed she’d discovered the wheels and was making better time, but her mood hadn’t improved.  She was a beauty even if she was stomping along like a pint-sized Godzilla in a snit. 

     As they got closer to the Bondo-mobile, Zack spied her cargo and almost hooted.  Kevin would die if he could see how far down on the food chain they rated.  "Okay,”  he said with a grin.  “I’ve been a good sport so far.  What are you, a junk dealer or a deranged pixie?  And why do you have a purple john in the bed of this abominable excuse for a truck?”

     “Aubergine,” she said, gazing intently at the pavement.

     “Aubergine?  I give.  What’s an aubergine?"  He ran his fingers through his hair.  "It sounds like an overripe avocado.”

     “Aubergine, you Neanderthal, is the color of an eggplant.  Purple,” she shouted, “and I’m not a pixie, I’m a grandmother.”

     Holding up his hands in surrender, Zack backed off.  “If we don’t want another cop encounter, we’d better get this stuff in the truck and get out of here.”  He ambled over to the passenger side door.  He could play this game.  Hiding a smile, he watched as she struggled to stow the luggage.  Finally, she gave up and dumped the carry-on bag in the bathtub. 

     With another drop dead glare, she slammed the tailgate shut before marching to the driver’s side and jumping in.  It was obvious she wanted to leave him standing in the road; however, she grudgingly unlocked his door.  But, she barely gave him time to get in before she ground the truck into gear. 

      Zack grabbed the scuffed plastic armrest as they careened out into traffic.  He leaned his head back against the cracked vinyl seat.   This whole trip had been one long free fall down Alice’s rabbit hole.  He halfway expected to see a hare, complete with waistcoat and monocle, hitching a ride. 

     A horn blared as she cut across several lanes of the busy street.  He surreptitiously assessed this grandmother who looked like Elizabeth Taylor in that classic Cleopatra movie.

     He wondered what she’d look like in a gauzy, see-through, Queen of Sheba outfit with her satiny midnight hair, olive skin and caramel colored eyes.  She’d be gorgeous but deadly, that’s what, cowboy.  With the attitude she had, she wouldn’t hesitate to cut off his private parts, and he’d better remember it.  Zack closed his eyes.  He had to get some sleep before he turned into a total nut case.

Maizie Walker’s hubby of twenty-two years is spending too much time watching football/baseball/bass fishing/whatever and too little time practicing the art of romance.  He’s oblivious to sexy lingerie and even sexier suggestions, so what’s a girl to do?  Hmm – how about making him jealous, and who better to flirt with than the hot new tennis pro.

Do you really think that’s going to work?  As they say in the south – there ain’t no way.  The Man She Married is a rollicking look at a bad concept that produces some interesting consequences.  It’s a story of love that endures in spite of lame-brained courting/making up ideas, buttinski relatives and a not-too-nice stalker.  

Join the eccentric and fun loving folks of Magnolia Bluffs, Georgia for a guaranteed good time.  And stay tuned to see how Mama and her sisters manage to get out of the magnolia.

     The sign on the window read Miss Scarlett's Boudoir, and if the inventory of Maizie’s store was any indication, Miss Scarlett had had herself a high old time.  It was an environment of lace pillows, frothy undergarments and frilly feminine apparel.  Even the bell above the door sounded girly. 

It was kitschy, it was funky and it had something for everyone.  Every female in the county had shopped at Miss Scarlett’s at one time or the other.  

     The blue-hairs loved the beauty and bath selection and the teens were hot for the trendy collection of jeans.  Best of all, Maizie and PJ were known throughout the area for the exclusive line of French make-up they applied with a flourish.  If you were in the market for a make-over, the Boudoir was definitely the place to go.

Under normal circumstances the boutique was a fantastic, fun place to work, but this day had been a doozy and Maizie was dead on her feet. 

     “PJ, would you close the shop today?” she asked.  “I need to run by the grocery store.  We’re having a family football party at my house tomorrow.” 

     “No problem.  It’s almost six o’clock anyway.”

     “I won’t be here tomorrow.  Bambi and Jerry Sue will be here to help you.”

     Gotcha’.  Don’t worry about a thing.”

 

     Maizie pulled into the Piggly Wiggly parking lot.  She was determined to do a quick in out, but the chance of that happening in Magnolia Bluffs - where everyone knew everyone else's business and loved to discuss it – was slim.  

     Before she could make it through the checkout line, Laverne Hightower, the town’s rumor maven, had managed to share a play by play of her gall bladder attack.  Not to be outdone, Shirley Smith had launched into a full rundown on her daughter’s wedding prep.  And everyone wanted to discuss the commotion at the Boudoir.  The next time she needed groceries Maizie was going to patronize the big box store out on the bypass.

     By the time the groceries were bought, the errands were run and the day was over, she was ready to pull her hair out.  No doubt about it - today had been one of those days. 

     Maizie breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled up to the detached garage behind her rambling white turn of the century bungalow.  Her home was typically southern with green shutters, a wraparound porch and a trellis of honeysuckle. 

     When things got too hectic, or she wanted to meditate, Maizie loved to sit on the porch swing with a frosty glass of sweet tea and watch the world go by.  It was her way of cleaning out the mental cobwebs.  However that was an indulgence for another day.

     “Clay,” Maizie yelled as she dropped her purse and a bag of canned goods on the kitchen table.  “I need some help.”

     The television was blaring in the family room, Blossom the cat was twining around her legs demanding to be fed, and hubby dear was missing in action.  Everything was operating normally in the Walker household.

     “Clayton, where are you?”  Maizie was perfectly capable of toting in the rest of the food, but it was the principle of the thing.

     “Clay-ton!”

     That apparently got his attention.  “What do you need, Babes?” he yelled, not bothering to abandon the television.

    “I want some help with the groceries.”

    “Can you wait just a minute?  I’m watching something.”

     Maizie stomped into the family room to see what was so important.  Bass fishing?  Clay wasn’t waiting for a touchdown to be scored or a home run to be hit.  No - he was watching some guy in an expensive boat troll for fish.  That was almost as boring as watching the grass grow.

     She was normally even tempered – except when she was in a snit, and that didn’t really count – but that didn’t keep her from grabbing the remote, hitting the off button and marching out.  Making a grand exit was a talent she’d learned at her mama’s knee, and she happened to be darned good at it, even if she did say so herself.

 

     Crap.  Clay knew he was in a mess of trouble, again.  What had he done this time?  All he’d wanted to do was see if Skeeter Jackson won the tournament and the hundred thousand dollars prize.  That kind of cash would go a long way toward solving at least one of his problems.         

     Getting immersed in that pipe dream had done nothing more than irritate his sweetie, so it was time to make amends.  Should he go with the “I’m so sorry, I’m an insensitive jerk” defense?  That usually worked, especially if he followed up with some heavy necking - that and a promise to do the dishes, take out the trash, clean the bathroom, yada, yada, yada.

     “I’m sorry, Sweetie.”  Clay was honestly remorseful.  He hated upsetting Maizie.  He’d fallen head over heels in love with her when they kids and that feeling hadn’t dimmed with age, if anything it had increased in intensity. 

     “Why don’t you sit down and let me get you a Coke,” he suggested.  Without waiting for an answer he retrieved a soft drink from the refrigerator.

     Clay was about to give himself a big pat on the back.  Then he took a good look at his wife’s face.  Something was drastically wrong, and it didn’t have anything to do with a fishing tournament or bringing in the groceries.

     “Clay.”  Maizie rubbed the cold can against her face.  “Is this all we have to look forward to?”

     Moses would have had a hard time answering that question, and frankly it scared Clay Walker silly.  When your wife got philosophical all hell was about to break loose, and he didn’t have a clue where it was going or how things would turn out.

 

 

 

Lt. Col. Chad Cassavetes has been promoted to the rank of single dad.  With his two daughters in tow he trades the open skies of Afghanistan for the dusty plains of Oklahoma.  When his horse trailer breaks down, Chad is rescued by an unlikely savior—an angel in pink cowboy boots.

With a riot of red curls and roots deep in the Okie soil, Kelbie Montgomery isn’t your ordinary rescuer.  She’s a single mom who’s sworn off military men—that is until Chad changes her mind.

Falling for the feet-on-the-ground widow is risky business for a man whose heart has always been in the skies. But Kelbie and her daughter are tempting Chad and his two girls to combine forces because he has a new mission - to make Kelbie fall in love with a certain top-gun dad.

     “Congratulations, you’ve survived your first horse show.  Are you ready to saddle up and mosey home?”

Absolutely!  Chad  was hot, tired and cranky.

    “We’re stopping at the Dairy Queen for a treat.  Do you and the girls want to go with us?” Kelbie asked.

     There wasn’t one of his previous girlfriends who would be caught dead in a Dairy Queen.     

     “Can we Daddy, can we?” Hannah pleaded.  He had to give it to the kid; she had supplication down to a fine art.  “I really, really want a Peanut Butter Parfait.”

     “Yeah, that’d be cool,” her sister Rachel agreed.

      A Butterfinger Blizzard did sound good.  “Sure, why not.”

     It had been a while since the Dairy Queen had seen quite such a motley crew.  With their boots, leather chaps and cowboy hats the girls looked like a feminine version of Wyatt Earp’s posse. 

     “What can I do for you young ladies?”  The woman behind the counter was wearing a big smile and an impressive poof hairdo.   

     In response to her blanket question there was a cacophony of noise until Marge, the barn manager let out a whistle that would make a pro football umpire jealous. 

“One at a time,” she instructed.  “Try to act like young ladies.”

     By the time Chad made it to the front of the line he could almost taste the combination of ice cream and candy.  However, before Miss DQ handed him his order she decided to do an impromptu advertisement.

     “Ya know, you turn can turn this puppy upside down and it’s so thick it’ll stay right there in that cup.”  To prove her point she flipped the cup over.  Oops - the ice went splat all over Chad’s sneakers.

     “I’ll be darned,” she said as she leaned over the counter.  “It’s never done that before.”

     Kelbie snorted before she broke into a belly laugh.  “I’m sorry.”  She slapped a hand over her mouth trying to stifle her giggles.  “Really.”  The fact she continued to laugh negated her sincerity.

     The kids were in a circle staring at the oozing puddle of ice cream.

     “Sorry about that, sir.  What else can I get for you?  It’s on the house.”

     Tears were running down Kelbie’s cheeks. 

     “Tell you what.  Give me a banana split and two spoons.  The lady and I will share.”  Chad understood the intimacy of sharing a dessert, and considering Kelbie’s deer in the headlights look, so did she.  He wasn’t sure what, if anything, they had going, but the process was certainly entertaining.

 

     This was all her fault.  If she hadn’t laughed at him she wouldn’t be involved in this chocolate version of foreplay.  Didn’t the man know it wasn’t appropriate to share food with a casual acquaintance?

     Chad dipped his spoon into the hot fudge, never taking his eyes off her.  Then he licked the spoon, lick by slow lick.  Jesus, Mary and Joseph!  Was it hot in here or was she the only one sweating like a pig? 

     “You should try the vanilla.”  He dipped his spoon into one of the mounds of ice cream.  “It’s so creamy and smooth.”  His voice was like an aphrodisiac.  And when he added a wink Kelbie almost melted on the spot.  “And don’t you love the cherry?  Too bad there’s only one.  Would you like a bite?”  Chad took a nibble of the Maraschino cherry and held out the other half. 

     Kelbie was tempted to clap her hands over her ears.  Was it possible to have an orgasm by simply watching a guy eat?  With that thought in mind she glanced around.  Thank God the kids were busy doing their own thing.

     “No,” she squeaked and then cleared her throat.  “No thanks.”  Kelbie picked up her plastic spoon and attacked the caramel end of the sundae like a Survivor contestant on day thirty.   

Only desperate, try-anything-once CiCi Hurst would agree to take the job of mascot for her daddy's NFL football team.  But the recently dumped heiress doesn't expect to be tackled by six feet five inches of flat-out gorgeous male.

Jake Culpepper is every woman's dream.  Too bad the pro-football star is exactly the type CiCi has vowed to avoid.  It'a a no-brainer: no more low-down, cheating athlete's!  

Jake can't believe he just decked the boss's daughter.  Now he's paying the price by working for CiCi at her family's camp for underpriviliged kids.  He didn't plan on playing the hero or falliing for CiCi.

He just hopes she feels the same way or he'll be the loneliest hero in the lone Star State!

*** 

     CiCi hated to admit it, but she was fascinated by the energy and glamor of the Road Runner team.  Although the players were the modern day equivalent of Gladiators, they always seemed to have time for the kids.  She suspected they were arrested adolescents who identified with their youthful fans.  The Road Runner cheerleaders were beautiful, sexy and well endowed.  Overall it was quite a heady environment. 

     CiCi stood in the tunnel leading to the locker rooms.  Although there wasn’t an audience, there was the residual energy left by 65,000 screaming fans.  Her bad attitude notwithstanding, it was incredibly exciting.

     Today was the last day of mini-camp where the skill positions - the quarterbacks, the wide receivers and the tight ends – practiced the expertise that made the game so exacting.  Plus Mac had said this was the first full day of practice for next season’s cheerleading team so there a lot of people on the field.

     CiCi strolled across the artificial rubber turf watching the athletes warm up.  These weren’t the three hundred plus pound behemoths you’d find playing on the defensive line, but they were fine physical specimens.  Bulging biceps, muscled legs, broad chests – whoa!  Stop right there.  CiCi had sworn off men.  Celibacy was her story and she was sticking to it.

     “Hey, Sis,” Mac yelled to be heard over the noise coming from the field.  “Come here.” 

     Her sister was wearing a pair of low slung shorts, a midriff top and a ponytail.  She was in her mid-thirties but she could easily pass for a teenager.

     CiCi strolled over, wondering what her sis was up to.  On more than one occasion, Mac’s ideas had landed them in a jam.

     “I’ve got it,” she squealed.  “I know the perfect job for you.”

     CiCi loved Mac, but sometimes that girl could be a real blonde.

     “What?”

     “You can be the chicken,” she said, clapping her hands in glee.  Her enthusiasm was almost catching.  Almost.

     “The Chicken?  Do you mean that thing?”  CiCi pointed at Tex, the team mascot.  The costume was supposed to look like a Road Runner – a prairie chicken - but swear to goodness, it was a dead ringer for Foghorn Leghorn from the cartoons. 

“Why would I want to do that?  And how about the guy who’s already wearing it?”

     “It’s not a problem.  Dwayne Scuggs has been asking everyone if they wanted to do the chicken gig.  I think he’s in trouble with his probation officer and wants to beat feet.  He has a record, you know,” Mac whispered the last sentence, not that the infamous Dwayne could actually hear her.

     “Daddy hired an ex-con?”  Wow, that was astonishing. 

     “I think he’s only done county jail time.  He’s Jake Culpepper’s cousin.”

     “Who’s Jake Culpepper?”

     “Oh Sweetie, you are so out of the loop.  He’s our star tight end.”  Mac rolled her eyes.  “His buns are so tight you can bounce a quarter off them.”

     “Mackenzie!”

     As usual, her sister ignored her.  “Hey, Dwayne.  Get yourself over here,” she shouted.

     CiCi grabbed her arm.  “Wait!  I don’t know if I want to do this.”

     “Sure you do.  I have a feeling this is exactly what you need.”  Mac was so excited she was almost dancing in place.

     Tex nodded his head acknowledging the summons before he waddled over.

     “Dwayne, my sister wants to take over the Chicken gig.”

     “I don’t-” CiCi started to object but didn’t get very far.

     “No shit?”  Dwayne yanked off the feathered head.  “Babes, it’s all yours.”  He shucked out of the chicken suit so fast it looked like he had a load of hot briquettes in his britches. 

“Here.”  He tossed her a two-foot chicken head with a crest of glossy feathers that would make Sally Rand envious.  “They’re practicing the sideline show.”  He waved his hand at the bevy of buxom blondes in short skirts and tight spandex midriff tops.  “Check with the head bimbo and see what they want you to do.”  Following that announcement, the former chicken hauled butt out of the stadium.   

     “What was that all about?” CiCi asked.  Her sister seemed to be almost as startled as she felt.

     “Beats me.”  Then Mackenzie broke into a big smile.  “He’s nuts.  But think of it this way.  You have a job.”

     Yep, she did.  Only time would tell whether that was good thing.  Jumping into a six-foot feathered outfit in the middle of a Houston summer was almost as appealing as snorting Jell-O through her nose.  It would be hot, sticky work - and foul hair was inevitable, but sometimes a girl had to gut up.  If she could make this chicken shtick work; she’d be a part of the team, and she’d have a job.

     Hallelujah! 

     The only thing that kept CiCi from breaking into a jubilant Snoopy dance was a pesky little inner voice that sounded like a bad rerun of Lost in Space.

Warning!  Warning!  Warning! 

     CiCi glanced at the chicken head (yeah right, Road Runner) and then studied the rest of the suit. She could flap her wings with the best of them.  The feet might be a bit tricky, but the wings would be a piece of cake.  Now, if she could shut up that niggle of doubt, everything would fine, honestly it would.

     No need to get his blood pressure up.  It was just a car, not the end of the world.  Yeah, and comparing his sleek, chrome beauty to a common vehicle was like comparing the Kitty Hawk to an F-22 Raptor.

     To add insult to injury, after Dwayne “borrowed” the car and hit a telephone pole, he had abandoned it on the highway.  That was the last time Jake would invite that dweeb to the ranch for the weekend.  

     And Dwayne was only the tip of the bad news iceberg.  Jake’s mom had hooked up with another loser.  The press had nicknamed the Road Runners the Road Kill because of their poor showing last season.  And the “biggie” was that Jake’s contract was up for renewal. 

In most professions a guy was just getting started at age thirty - not so for professional athletes.  Thirty was pushing it, and although Jake had a great agent who was working hard to earn his fifteen percent, they still didn’t know if Texas Bob intended to renew his option. 

     If the team let him go, Jake could always be a free agent.  Last year his buddy did that and ended up in…a very snowy place.  Not that Jake had anything against the far north, but he really hated the combination of sub-zero temperatures and outdoor stadiums.   

     All in all, it wasn’t the best week he’d ever had.  But looking on the bright side of things, Jake had a ton of money in the bank and his social life was, to say the least, hot. 

Best of all he’d snagged the ranch of his dreams - hundreds of acres of coastal plains’ grazing land.  Life was good.  That is, if he could keep Dwayne and the rest of his no-good relatives out of it.  He couldn’t change his mother’s taste in men, so he did the next best thing and provided her with everything she could ever need.  As far as his cousins went – families could be a pain in the butt.

     In the good news column, the Road Runners were in the middle of mini-camp and exercise induced endorphins were the best pick-me-up known to man.  Plus, Jake could butt heads without getting arrested. 

If Dwayne was smart, he wouldn’t show his face at the stadium for at least the next decade.  But the dude wasn’t an Einstein.  In fact, Big Bird was smarter than his cousin.

     Jake pulled into the parking lot, hesitating a moment before claiming his reserved parking spot.  If his luck held, he could sneak in and then gripe about the gardener taking his slot.  The truck let off a giant belch of smoke when Jake cut the engine. 

     “Cool wheels.”  That comment came from Chase Benavides, the Road Runner's quarterback and Jake’s best friend.    

     So much for anonymity.  “Up yours,” Jake mumbled, grabbing his duffel bag from the bed of the truck.

     Chase acknowledged his friend’s wisecrack with a big belly laugh.  “Good junior high come-back.”

     In spite of himself, Jake grinned.  “I’ll show you junior high.”  He poked his buddy in the ribs, initiating the old ritual of adolescent goosing and grabbing they’d perfected during their four years at Texas A&M.

     “Seriously, what happened to your wheels?”

     “Dwayne happened.”  Jake explained the demise of his treasured Porsche.   

     “That bites.  What are you going to do now?” Chase asked.

     “I can’t turn him in to the cops, he’s like my brother.  But if I catch him, I’m gonna pummel him to within an inch of his life.  That boy’s rear-end isn’t going to be worth a plug nickel.”

     Chase chuckled.  “Let’s hope he doesn’t show.  I’d hate to have to spring for your bail.  And speaking of butts, we'd better get going or the coach is gonna have ours."

 

     "Culpepper get your ass out on the field and get warmed up.  This ain't no ladies sewing circle.”  Those dulcet tones came from Coach Carruthers, scourge of the NFL.

Jake closed his cell phone.  He'd been talking to AAA about towing his car.  If he had half a brain, he’d call the cops, but even though Dwayne was in dire need of a comeuppance, Jake simply couldn’t do it.  Not considering he was still on probation from his last high jinks.

     “Sure coach, I'm outta here.”  Jake pulled the jersey over his shoulder pads and trotted out on the field.  He’d barely made it to the twenty yard line when he spied Dwayne - the chicken idiot - on the sidelines clucking and flapping as if he didn’t have a care in the world.  Boy, did that goofball have another think coming. 

     “Hey Culpepper, get over here.”  Jake heard Chase’s command, but his laser attention was focused on the chicken.  Ten yards, five yards, two yards, contact.  And a big fat splat! 

Jake didn’t intend to hurt the jerk.  The guy was family, even if he was a doofus.  It was just going to be a friendly tussle - no big deal.  Too bad, he hadn't counted on the ramifications of tackling a six-foot feather bed.  Jake spit fluff out of his mouth and quickly decided this had not been one of his better ideas.

     Chase pulled him up by the neck of his jersey and smacked him on the arm.  “Culpepper, you are such an idiot.  Do you know who that is?”

     Of course he knew who it was.  He didn’t tackle just anyone.  “Yeah, it’s Dwayne.”  He reached down to give the chicken a hand up. 

     Chase gave him one of those grins that meant trouble, with a capital T.  “Like I said, you are such an idiot.”  He stepped in front of Jake and addressed the chicken.  “Are you okay?”

     “Hmmmph.”

     “Tell you what.  Flap your wing if you need help getting the head off.” 

     Feathers flew as the chicken wing pumped up and down accompanied by frenzied sound effects. 

     “Hmmmmph, hmmmph, hmmmph!”

     Chase patted down the puffed feathers.  “Give me a sec.”  He glanced at Jake.  “Get over here lover boy, I have something to show you.”  He plastered on another huge grin.  “Boy, are you toast!”

What was he talking about?  No one cared if Dwayne got pounded.  In fact, the Road Runner chicks would probably collectively give him a high-five.

     Chase swept the head off with a flourish.  “How about that?”

     Jake gaped.  “That” was a tall, slender woman with a gamine face, big brown eyes, a pixie haircut and Cupid’s bow lips.  Jeeze, jeeze, oh man!  Instead of taking out Dwayne, he’d decked some gorgeous chick and he outweighed her by at least a hundred pounds. 

     She could have been seriously hurt.  Thank God for all those feathers. 

     First he’d had to deal with Dwayne’s shenanigans and now he was faced with a pissed off Ashley Judd look-alike.  Would someone please put him out of his misery? 

     The irate chicken whapped him up side the head with her wing.  “You cretin!”

     She obviously wanted to strangle him. That wasn’t the reaction he generally got from women, but if looks could kill he’d be pushing up daisies.  A quick assessment assured Jake that “Miss I’d Like to Snap Your Head Off” wasn’t his type.  But why did that matter?

     “Uh oh,” Chase scrubbed a hand over his face.  “Don’t look now, but here comes Texas Bob.  I sure wouldn’t want to be in your cleats.”

     Great, just what Jake needed!  Texas Bob Hurst was not going to be happy about this latest screw up, even if he did have a perfectly good explanation.

     Much to Jake’s surprise, Texas Bob put his arms around as much of the chicken as he could hold.

     “Is my baby girl okay?”  He didn’t wait for an answer before he turned his glare on Jake.

     Did he really say baby girl?  Baby girl as in the old man’s daughter.  Crap, his ass was definitely grass.

     “You,” Texas Bob stabbed a finger in Jake’s direction, “I want to see you in my office in twenty minutes.  No excuses.”

     Jake watched as the chicken clomped off the field behind her father.  He glanced at his friend.  “Not good, huh?”

     Chase slapped him on the back.  “Nope, not good.” 

     Most of the team had crowded around to check out the action, and in unison they shook their heads.

     As they say in Texas – shee-it!