Debbi Rawlins - Texas Heat

He was talking and laughing with someone, and Dory strained so hard to see who it was, she nearly fell off her chair. But she caught a glimpse of the tall, leggy blonde around whose shoulders he’d casually slipped an arm.

Checking on the chili cook-off booths. Right. She adjusted the metal box on her lap, and muttered when she accidentally ripped off a fingernail.

“Excuse me, miss.” It was the ranch foreman, whom she’d met yesterday.

“Hi, Silas. Need some tickets?”

“No, ma’am. Seems we’re in a pickle and Pete thinks I should talk to you.”

“Yes?”

“We need help in one of the booths.”

She lifted a shoulder. “Sure, but what about selling tickets?”

“I can do that for the time being,” he said, abruptly removing his hat and grinning. “But we need a pretty gal like yourself for the booth. The kissing booth.”

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