Shameless. Kimberly Raye

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      3

      HE’D WALKED AWAY.

      That all-important fact replayed in Deb’s head later that day as she sat at her desk at the In Touch, the three-room newspaper office located right above Pancake World.

      But he hadn’t walked. He’d sauntered, swayed, in that long-legged, sexy-as-hell gait that made an entire bridal shop full of women—most of them Laverne’s single cousins and nieces and even her great aunt who’d just happened to stop by—drop their jaws and visibly salivate.

      And not just on account of his looks. Sure, Jimmy had it all put together right, but it was the entire package that made him the hottest catch in four counties. He was the green-eyed, blond-haired, handsome white knight every girl dreamed of. The charming, honest, loyal son-in-law mamas prayed for. The successful, salt-of-the-earth rancher every daddy wanted to see hitched to his little girl.

      It was strictly Darwin’s theory at work. Society looked to the strongest, most appealing for procreating. While the dreaded P word was the last thing Deb had in mind, she wasn’t immune to Jimmy’s appeal.

      In fact, his appeal had had her this close to wrapping her arms around him and begging for more of what he’d started with his warm hands and purposeful fingers.

      By walking away, he’d dashed that impulse.

      “Why are you frowning?” Wally, Deb’s devoted copyboy, had glanced up from his computer and was eyeing her.

      “I’m not frowning.” She busied herself taking a sip of black coffee from the latest acquisition of her collection of designer Bitch mugs: I’ve Got The Itch To Bitch.

      “You’re definitely frowning. Isn’t she frowning?” he asked the seventy-something woman who sat at a nearby table.

      Dolores Guiness had eyes and ears as big as Texas, which was exactly why Deb had hired her on for a few hours a day to write the About Town section, aka the gossip column for the In Touch. The old woman made it her business to know everything about everyone.

      She eyed Deb over a pair of black-rimmed bifocals as if she were a coyote sizing up a good rib eye. “Why are you frowning, dear? You can tell old Dolores.”

      “I’m not frowning.”

      “You sure are,” Wally persisted. “Isn’t she?” This time he turned to the petite redhead who sat at what had once been Annie’s desk. She wore an oversize white T-shirt that swallowed her small frame and a pair of blue-jean overalls.

      “I, um, I guess so.”

      “It’s okay to speak your mind,” Wally said. “She won’t bite you.”

      “I definitely bite,” Deb told the timid Paige.

      “Rumor has it she definitely has biting potential,” Dolores informed them. “But since said biter signs my paycheck, I’m keeping my opinion to myself.”

      “Good girl,” Deb told her.

      “She likes everybody to think she bites,” Wally went on, “but she doesn’t.”

      “I bite, dammit.” Deb took another sip, slammed her mug down on her desk and glared at Wally. “And don’t you go telling anybody otherwise.”

      “I don’t have to tell anyone anything. You already did it yourself when you led the fundraiser for those foster kids over at the church. And when you organized that bake sale to help Mr. and Mrs. Cootie pay funeral expenses for their uncle. Stuff like that speaks for itself. You’re definitely a nonbiter.”

      “I’m the editor of the town newspaper. I like to stay in the thick of things. My reasons are purely self-motivated.”