LITMIR.BIZ

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Deb searched for the right words as she stared at the rows of beaded roses, the miles of tulle, the myriad of white silk ribbons and appliqués of all shapes and sizes. “Busy.”

      “It’s worse than downtown Houston during rush hour.”

      “True, but we can fix it. We’ll cut here, rearrange there, take off the bows and the overabundance of sequins and beadwork and it’ll be perfect.”

      “Laverne can handle hems, but this is major—”

      “I’ll do it.”

      “You?”

      Deb fingered the lapel of her champagne-colored suit. “Who do you think made this?”

      “I was thinking Saks or Gucci.”

      “Way out here in Timbuktu, Texas?”

      “They have catalogues. And you do drive to Austin every now and then. I thought maybe you did some power shopping.”

      As if she had the cash for that. “Granny Lily taught me everything she knew and left me her sewing machine to keep me company.”

      Annie eyed the gown. “You really think you can do something with this?”

      “Girlfriend, I know I can.” Deb wiped at Annie’s smudged cheeks with a tissue. “Now cheer up and let’s get on with this fitting.”

      Annie sniffled and looked hopeful as she glanced into the mirror. Her expression fell as she surveyed her reflection. “Forget it. This is white.”

      “What’s wrong with white?”

      She gave Deb an “Are you kidding?” look.

      “Oh, please, Annie. If you think everyone who wears white in this day and age is as pure as the driven snow, guess again.”

      “It’s not that. It’s just…Tack and I have been living together the past few weeks and—”

      “If anyone deserves to wear white, it’s you,” Deb cut in. “It’s your first wedding with your first and only true love. I don’t care how long you’ve been living together or what wicked things you do in the privacy of your own bedroom.”

      Annie grinned. “Or the barn.”

      Deb arched an eyebrow. “The barn?”

      “Then there was that time down by the river.”

      “The river?”

      “And on the back of Tack’s motorcycle.”

      “A motorcycle?” Deb shook her head. “Goody-goody Annie Divine has done it on the back of a motorcycle, and I can’t even find a decent date. What’s wrong with this picture?”

      “You tell me.” Annie peeled off the dress and handed it over to Deb. “You used to be out every night dusting the floor down at BJ’s with some hunky cowboy. Lately, the only vehicle reported after hours at your house belongs to the pizza delivery boy.”

      “A girl’s gotta eat.” Deb avoided Annie’s curious gaze and inspected the dress. She’d get rid of the cupids and the extravagant beading.

      “You’re not mopey because of my wedding, are you?”

      “Believe me, it’s not that.” She would do away with the godawful bows.

      “Because your turn will come one day.”

      “I don’t want a turn.” The sequined butterflies were history.

      “And you’ll be standing here in a big white dress of your own.”

      “I hate white.” Adios beaded tulips.

      “And you’ll walk down the aisle with the man of your dreams.”

      “The man of my dreams avoids aisles.” The rhinestone ladybug buttons didn’t stand a chance.

      “And you’ll both say ‘I do’ and it’ll be happily ever after and—”

      “It’s not the wedding,” Deb cut in. “It’s…” She shook her head. “I’ve just had a lot on my mind lately.” An understatement if she’d ever made one.

      Think about it. It had been a full month since Jimmy Mission had murmured those words. During that time, she’d seen him only once, the evening following their day in court. She and Annie had been having drinks at BJ’s and he’d walked in. After a few heated glances and the usual bickering, she’d walked out. Actually, run was a more appropriate verb.

      She’d been so sure he meant to get his answer then and there, and she hadn’t been up to giving him one. She’d been too angry and much too aroused after their second kiss to think clearly. But he’d kept his distance because Jimmy Mission had obviously meant what he’d said.

      He wanted her to think.

      To simmer.

      “Is some man causing you trouble?” Annie’s voice drew Deb’s attention and she shook her head.

      “Definitely not.” Jimmy Mission wasn’t causing trouble, he was trouble. He was too good-looking, too charming and she wanted him entirely too much.

      She didn’t need to get involved with a man who had his sights set on marriage. Marriage led to family and family to sacrifice and sacrifice to misery. She knew because she’d spent the better part of her life sacrificing her own happiness for the sake of family, and being miserable because of it.

      But, and this was the biggie, Jimmy didn’t have marriage on his mind; he wanted an affair. In a sense, he was offering to leave four thousand dollars on her nightstand, payment for services rendered.

      The thought should have made her feel cheap. She should have exploded with righteous indignation at the suggestion, promptly refusing and made good on the judgment by offering him free advertising for his stud bull or a partnership in the paper. That’s what the proper, conservative daughter of newspaper mogul Arthur Strickland would have done.

      But Deb had traded propriety for freedom a long time ago. She wanted her debt, however ridiculous, paid in full and quickly. Jimmy’s offer not only promised that, but much, much more.

      “Deb?” Annie’s voice intruded on her thoughts and she shook away images of the more. Namely, Jimmy kissing her again and again and…

      “Are you listening?”

      “Hmmm?”

      “There is something wrong.”

      “No, there isn’t.”

      “I just mentioned the word pastel and you didn’t react.”

      “Pastel what?”

      “Dresses.”

      “Bridesmaid dresses, right?”

      “There are no bridesmaids, just a maid of honor—you.” When Deb only nodded, Annie frowned. “Now I know something’s wrong.”

      “Because I agreed to wear pastel for my best friend’s wedding?”

      “Because you—Miss I’m-a-winter-complexion-and-I-only-wear-bold-colors—agreed to do it without any grumbling.”

      “I’m grumbling.” Deb tapped her chest. “In here, where it counts.”

      Annie eyed her. “You aren’t worried about the nominations, are you? Why, you’re a shoo-in.”

      “I’m not a shoo-in, and it doesn’t matter.”

      “Of course it matters. Being nominated by the Texas Associated Press for Best Weekly newspaper is a huge honor, and after the year you’ve had and the headline articles you’ve done, you’re sure to garner a nomination. You’ll probably even win, so you’d better line up a formal and get ready for a major awards ceremony.”

      “I

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