Page 14 of Haunted Spurs

I’m about to shoot back with a joke, but my cell phone starts vibrating furiously in the back pocket of my jeans. I pull it out, read the name on the screen, and swipe to answer. I don’t even have time to say “hello” before a blast of sound nearly blows out my eardrum.

“DON’T WORRY, SWEETIE, I HAVE EXACTLY WHAT YOU NEED!”

I instinctively pull the phone away, blinking. Aunt Tina is yelling with such intensity that it sounds like my speakerphone’s on full blast. And clearly, she isn’t talking to me.

“AWW! I’M SO HAPPY YOU WANT TO BE ON THE SHOW, THIS IS PERFECT!” she screeches again from the other end of the line.

Duke stops wiping the counter. He folds his massive arms across his chest and shoots me a murderous glare.

“What’s with all the racket? This is a diner, Willers, not a stadium PA system!” he growls.

I chuckle under my breath, ducking my head and giving him an apologetic little wave with my free hand to calm him down.

I bring the phone back to my ear, keeping it at a safe distance. “Tina? Did you need something?”

“AUNT Tina!” she corrects me instantly, in the tone of someone who’s just suffered a grave insult.

“Aunt Tina, did you need something?” I try again, using all the patience I can muster.

While I wait for her to catch her breath, I feel a sudden yank on the leash. I look down and see Ollie straining dangerously toward the leather booths in the back of the diner. He’s zeroing in on the table where Rae, Ivy, and Sloane are having lunch, surrounded by plates piled high with French fries and club sandwiches. My dog, obviously, is angling for a handout, giving them his best starving-puppy eyes.

With one hand occupied by the phone and the other busy tugging back on the harness of my bottomless pit of a Labrador, I settle for giving the three girls a knowing smile and a quick double eyebrow raise in greeting. They wave back in amusement, and Ivy even pantomimes tossing a piece of a burger to Ollie, who practically chokes trying to catch it.

“Yes!” Aunt Tina finally exclaims, yanking my attention back to the phone. Her voice drips with almost evil excitement. “Could you swing by the assembly room right now? I need to talk to you about something for Haunted Spurs. Something you are going to like very much.”

I know perfectly well that when Aunt Tina says you’re “going to like something very much,” she actually means she likes it very much.

But I’m curious… what can I say?

5

Absolutely Insufferable (and Drop-Dead Sexy)

Selene

“You again?!” I snap, my voice echoing off the bare walls of the town hall assembly room.

I’m already in a terrible mood. I showed up here, swallowing my pride, clinging to the faint, naive hope that Aunt Tina would bend the rules and let me go on the reality show solo. Instead, the woman reacted with borderline-hysterical enthusiasm, throwing her hands in the air so dramatically that her damn clinking bracelets nearly gave me a headache.

“I have the perfect solution!” she shrieked. “The audience is going to lose their minds! They’ll eat it up!” and a bunch of other nonsense before disappearing into the back room to dig through paperwork.

I came here under duress, looking for a distraction, and to get away from… this.

From these fucking hypnotic blue eyes. From those ridiculous, illegal dimples framing his mouth. From those thick forearms exposed beneath his rolled-up flannel sleeves, corded with veins so prominent they should be illegal that…

Christ, my mouth is watering.

Why do I keep running into this damn cowboy?

“Darlin’…” Ron Willers spreads his massive arms, stopping two steps away from my chair. “It’s a really small town. It’s almost impossible for us not to run into each other.”

He looks so damn smug.

Too smug.

I hate him. I hate his swagger. And, above all, I hate how shamelessly attractive he is with every fiber of my being.

“Tina called me,” he adds, leaning toward me and cupping a hand over his mouth to whisper. As if there’s any risk of someone overhearing us. The room is completely empty; it’s just the two of us and rows of folding chairs.