Delores Fossen - Truly, Madly, Briefly - Truly, Madly, Briefly / Tried And True

Heck, Aidan had probably known the winner within seconds after Henrietta Beekins plucked Bobbie’s name from the hat. Or rather the gallon-size Crock-Pot that Henrietta’s lottery committee had used to hold the 137 slivers of paper.

Aidan glanced down at the Hank’s Feed and Bait desk calendar. “I didn’t think the lottery thing was supposed to start until tomorrow morning.”

“It isn’t. I mean, I guess it is. I’m really not sure. Look, I didn’t even enter that stupid lottery.”

Mercy, it sounded like a bona fide fish story. But the truth was she hadn’t entered the lottery that would have given her a whole week of sole pursuing rights for the hottest guy in town—Aidan O’Shea.

Nope.

Bobbie hadn’t even considered entering it. After tangling twice with Jasper Kershaw, she needed another man about as much as a longhorn needed ultra-sheer panty hose.

“My uncles thought they were doing me a favor,” Bobbie explained. “They were wrong, as they usually are when it comes to meddling in my personal life. I have no intentions of pursuing you tomorrow or any other day. Not that you’re not worthy of pursuit. But I’m just not in the market for a man. Any man. I’m sort of taking a hiatus from romance and, um, all that other stuff.”

From the deputy’s crisp nod, it seemed he was pleased with her babbling. “Is this because of the travel agent who jilted you twice?”

She hadn’t dared to hope that he hadn’t heard about Jasper’s jiltings either. Despite Aidan’s arrival merely a week earlier, he’d probably heard the fiasco discussed in complete fiasco detail. Jasper and she were still one of the town’s hottest topics. “Let’s just say it’s jaded my outlook about any and all future relationships.”

Jaded, jinxed and junked them.

Again, he nodded in approval. “Your uncles,” he commented. “I met them.”

From the way he pulled his rather well-shaped mouth together, it hadn’t been a pleasant meeting either. Since Bobbie didn’t want to speculate about what such an encounter would entail, she settled for an inquisitive sounding “Oh?”

“They were in here this morning.” Aidan unwrapped a small candy-striped mint and popped it into his mouth. “They tried to talk me into modeling for the Boxers or Briefs Internet catalog.” He paused. “I declined their generous offer.”

“Oh.”

Well, that was to be expected. Still, she couldn’t fault her uncles for trying. Aidan O’Shea appeared to have a first-class rump, and there was a shortage of those around Liffey. Actually, there was a shortage of fully functioning males under the age of fifty. With those cool sea-green eyes, rich chocolate-colored hair and lanky six-foot-tall build, Aidan more than qualified as both male and functioning. He was the stuff that dreams were made of.

Or in her case, nightmares.

For some reason he kept reminding her that she was indeed a functioning female. Not good. Not good at all. Her hormones, and other female parts, would just have to find some other way to amuse themselves.

“How’s Sheriff Cooper?” she asked, hoping to get her mind off functioning things.

“As sick as a small hospital.”

“Oh. That sounds pretty sick.”

Aidan nodded. “Let me guess. You’re here to file a complaint about—” He held up one finger. “A Beeping Tom. And you want me to come immediately to your house so I can check it out.”

“Uh, don’t you mean Peeping?”

“No. I mean someone who drives slowly past your house and beeps his horn in a suggestive manner.”

Bobbie frowned. “No. I’m not here to report anything like that. Call me naive but I didn’t even know a horn could sound suggestive. Guess I’ve lead a sheltered life, huh?”

He didn’t seem amused by her comment. A second finger went up. “You’ve had a possible UFO sighting, and you want me to stand guard inside your house tonight.”

She shook her head.

He lifted a third finger. “Your cat’s stuck in a very big tree, and you want me to go to your house to see if I can coax it into coming down.”

Bobbie wrinkled up her nose. “You get a lot of complaints like that?”

“Loads.”

Sheez. And she thought she’d had a rough day, what with the vanishing underwear. “No, actually I’m here because a case of merchandise is missing from the warehouse.”

Aidan blinked, probably stunned at the possibility of a real crime. “And you want to report it?”

That didn’t seem to be a trick question. “Sure.”

None of the skepticism left his eyes. “What kind of merchandise?”

“Thong briefs.” She felt the blush make its way from her cheeks to her daffodil-gold toenail polish. After five years of managing Boxers or Briefs, she probably should have been more accustomed to discussing risqué Magic Magenta underwear with a man, but Bobbie had never quite gotten the hang of it.

His eyebrow rose.

It didn’t help because she figured that minor facial adjustment was a request for more information. When his other eyebrow slid up, Bobbie knew she was right.

She nodded. Shrugged. And shuffled her feet. “The design is called the, uh, Gigolo. It has a loose silk front with a nearly invisible, um, understring thingamajig.”

She had to give it to Aidan. Other than those raised eyebrows, he didn’t have a reaction. No smirking. No cough to cover up a snicker. He just sat there with his shoulders squared and a cop’s demeanor plastered all over his incredibly cute face.

“Any other identifying details regarding this merchandise?” he asked.

Bobbie gave him the stock number. What she wouldn’t mention was that the sales pitch for the Gigolo was a garment to insure easy access to your family jewels. Nope. She’d keep that little gem of advertising wisdom to herself.

“The case contains three dozen,” she added. “All in magenta. And, uh, all in size triple-X.”

Still no smirk. As if it were the most mundane crime of his entire career, Aidan extracted a form from the letter tray on his temporary desk, and grabbed a pen. He’d hardly gotten past the first line when the door flew open. The knob and the bell smacked against the wall, and the sudden rush of wind sent papers scattering.

“You have to come right away!” Maxine Varadore announced. She wriggled herself between Bobbie and Aidan but not before giving Bobbie a what-the-devil-are-you-doing-here? glare.

Bobbie glared back, but then she’d had a lot of practice glaring at Maxine, especially since she’d recently fired the woman from her seamstress job at the factory. Maxine had an uncanny knack for squeezing her size-fourteen butt into a pair of size-six jeans, but she’d been an absolute disaster at decorative stitching and boxer fly assembly.

“He’s busy doing a report,” Bobbie informed her.

Maxine flicked her off with an icy glance and a piqued lift of her makeup-slathered nose. “You’re not my boss anymore, so I don’t have to listen to you.” When she turned her attention back to Aidan, she tossed in a whimper and batted her mascara-gummed eyelashes for good measure. “My poor little kitty, Sue-Sue, is stuck in that big hackberry tree in my backyard. You need to get her to come down. I’ll warn you though, it might take a while.”

Aidan gathered up the scattered papers and dumped them onto the center of the desk. His gaze eased to Maxine. Then to Bobbie. There was a you-didn’t-believe-me-huh? look in his eyes. Bobbie conceded his point with a shrug. So, this is what he had to deal with on an hourly, perhaps minute-to-minute basis. She actually felt sorry for him.

“Miss Varadore,” Aidan said at the end of a sigh. He picked up his pen and got back to work on the report. “I don’t do kitty rescues. And at the moment, I’m attending to Miss Callahan’s situation.”