LITMIR.BIZ

      Chapter One

      He didn’t save the voice-mail messages. Why bother? The last thing Gabriel Morrison needed right now was the all-time roughest, toughest tag team of Dennis and Latoya. Instead, he tossed his cell phone down on the passenger seat of his Porsche, and, anxious to get his mind on anything but work and the office back in LA, he flicked on the radio.

      Love my Tenders.

      Love them lots.

      Shaped like little steaks.

      Love my Tenders.

      Eat them all.

      They’re not fried, they’re baked.

      Gabe dropped his head against the steering wheel and groaned.

      Bad enough he was stuck in a traffic jam that looked to be a couple miles long.

      Worse that his air conditioner was on the fritz, he was almost out of gas and he was driving (or more specifically, idling) in the center lane between two eighteen-wheelers that dwarfed his car and cut off any chance of getting a breath of fresh air, even with the top down. Way worse when every time he checked, there were more and more messages from the office. More and more messages it was getting harder and harder to dodge.

      And now he had to listen to the Love Me Tenders commercial?

      Insult to injury.

      Gabe clicked off the car radio and drummed his fingers against the dash that was quickly heating up from the intensity of the afternoon sun.

      Funny, he’d always thought of Ohio as a cold place. If he was still in Ohio.

      As if it would give him some connection to reality, Gabe craned his neck and looked around. He didn’t see a sign that gave him any hint about where he was, but up ahead, he did see a break in the traffic. Not much to go on, but it was something. And right about now, something was better than nothing.

      The next time the huge truck in front of him started to crawl forward, Gabe waited for his opportunity. He let the space between the vehicles widen and while the truck on his right was still grinding into gear, he punched the accelerator and shot into the open space. It turned out to be an exit lane and once he was off the freeway, he took the opportunity to look for a gas station. Easier said than done. By the time he saw a familiar red-and-yellow sign up ahead, he was in another line of traffic. This one wasn’t moving any faster than the last.

      At least there were no eighteen-wheelers around.

      Gabe glanced over at the late-model minivan next to him. It was packed to the gills with luggage, and while the adults in the front seat seemed resigned to the fate of waiting in line for who-knew-what, the three pint-sized passengers in the back had obviously had enough. Too keyed up to sit still, they bounced in place and tossed a stuffed animal back and forth between them.

      “Hey, dude!” The kid on the passenger side couldn’t have been older than seven. He rolled down the back window and waved a toy stuffed bulldog in Gabe’s direction.

      Gabe cringed. He recognized Duke the Dog immediately. Then again, he suspected most people would. Whether they wanted to or not.

      After just six weeks on the air, the Love Me Tenders dog-food commercial had become a cultural icon of sorts that had taken on a life, and a cult following, all its own. A lovable, cuddly Duke, star of the commercial, was available full-size in toy stores everywhere. A miniature variety was being given away in record numbers along with the kids’ meals at a popular fast-food chain.

      The kids in the minivan had the Cadillac version: an almost-life-sized Duke, complete with sequined jumpsuit and black ducktail wig, the outfit he wore in the commercial as he crooned the now-famous words to a tune that was just catchy enough to have the country singing along. And just different enough from the original to avoid any nasty lawsuits.

      “Hey, dude! Look!” The little boy wagged Duke in Gabe’s direction. “It’s the Love Me Tenders dog. Isn’t he cute?”

      “Love Me Tenders! Love Me Tenders!” his little sisters sang next to him.

      And Gabe was sure that somewhere between LA and wherever he was sitting now, he must have died. Died and gone to hell.

      Not ready to accept his fate—or maybe just to get away from his own past and his own thoughts—he pulled onto the shoulder and shot past the waiting traffic. He took the first turn-off he came to and drove as fast as the state (and he knew for sure it was Ohio now because he saw a State Trooper) allowed.

      A few minutes later, he found himself at the entrance to a ferry dock.

      “Islands? In Ohio?” It was news to Gabe but he didn’t stop to question it. He didn’t hesitate, either. It looked like the ferry was just getting ready to leave the dock and he joined the last of the cars waiting to get on.

      At this point, he didn’t much care where he was headed. Anywhere was better than nowhere.

      And for the last week, he’d been headed nowhere fast.

      “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, a new guest?” Meg Burton pulled open the oven door and drew out a tray of cookies sprinkled with red-and-green sugar. She set them on the rack she’d left on the counter in the Cupid’s Hideaway kitchen before she turned back to her grandmother. “You can’t have a new guest checking in. You’re completely booked. It’s Christmas in July week, and the tourists are everywhere. You’ve been booked for months.”

      Maisie Templeton breathed in the aroma and gave the cookies an approving smile. “I was booked,” she said. “The Crawfords.” Maisie was the least inhibited person Meg had ever known. Her grandmother was over seventy, but that didn’t stop her from pursuing her life’s passion: Cupid’s Hideaway, an island bed-and-breakfast inn known for its unique decor, its loyal clientele and the fact that the fluffy little old lady who owned it didn’t just encourage romance, she aided and abetted it.

      But at the mention of the Crawfords, even Maisie’s cheeks went a little dusky under the coating of pink blusher she wore. “You remember them. They visited last summer, around this time. They were the ones who—”

      “The ones we had to call the police about!” Meg rolled her eyes. She remembered the Crawfords, all right. So did everyone else on South Bass Island. The Crawfords and their exploits were already legendary in the annals of island gossip. Medium-aged. Mediumsized. Medium-temperament people. Bland as TV dinners. Or at least that was what Meg had thought when she’d seen them arrive.

      Who would’ve guessed that a little game they’d been playing with a pair of furry handcuffs and a bottle of peppermint-flavored

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