Beeping Tom reports.”
He nodded. “Go on.”
Bobbie took a deep breath, hoping a good analogy would come to mind.
It didn’t.
Unfortunately, a bad one popped right into her head and found its way straight to her suddenly chatty mouth. “It’s sort of like the Twango, one of Boxers or Briefs’ best-selling products.”
From the look on his face, she’d dumbfounded him. “The Twango?”
The bad analogy just kept coming. “It’s a satin-lined, control-top foundation garment for men.”
He just stared at her.
Bobbie probably should have shut up, but the non-stop ringing of phones gave her enough courage, and perhaps the insanity, to continue.
“The Twango,” she explained, the slogan slipping right off her tongue. “Comfort, style and illusion—all rolled into one bottom-shaping, stomach-minimizing brief.”
All right. So, that wasn’t her best attempt at explaining things.
But then, sadly, it wasn’t her worst either.
Rather than keep digging a hole that was getting awfully deep, Bobbie took a step back and waited to see if Aidan O’Shea was desperate enough to snap up her offer.
2
The Drifter: Catalog Item 421. A machine-washable cotton-spandex brief for the man on the move who wants to keep things in place. Available in Stop Sign Red, Alert Amber and Go-get-’em Green. Comes with complimentary Boxers or Briefs travel toothbrush.
“THE TWANGO,” Aidan said under his breath.
Heaven help him.
So that he wouldn’t have the urge to demolish his phone the way Bobbie had her pager, he turned off the ringer. Besides, he needed a moment of quiet so he could think straight. He was almost positive this was one of those situations where he needed a clear head.
“Comfort, looks and illusion,” she repeated as if that would help.
Well, it wasn’t exactly what he’d hoped Bobbie Fay Callahan would offer. Aidan had thought maybe she could put an end to this lottery business by canceling it. He’d further hoped that she would tell the ladies of Liffey to stop calling him about everything from faucet drips to flat tires. He just couldn’t understand why the female population had taken such an interest in him.
Or why they had such a distorted view of the duties of a law-enforcement officer.
However, at this point, he was open to suggestions—any suggestions—that would make his life easier and quieter. He hadn’t had more than fifteen minutes of peace since he’d arrived a week earlier in what was supposed to be a sleepy little town where peace and quiet were plentiful.
“It’s not often a man finds himself compared to an item of underwear,” he commented.
A lobster-red blush covered her cheeks. It matched the color of her skirt and silky top. “You think I’m a candidate for the loony bin, don’t you?”
Absolutely. Her, her uncles and, seemingly, three-quarters of the town.
While Aidan was trying to figure out how to put that observation into kinder, gentler terms, Bobbie just kept right on talking. “Okay. So using the Twango probably wasn’t the best comparison, but stay with me here, and I think I can explain this better.”
Good. She had a hundred-percent chance of doing that, because so far she hadn’t made an eyelash of sense.
Bobbie turned off her phone before she continued. “I want the illusion that my love life is good. Very good. That way, it won’t give anyone, including my uncles and Jasper Kershaw, the right to feel they can monkey with it. And maybe, just maybe, the same could happen for you.”
Aidan certainly hoped this sounded better when he said it aloud, but he wasn’t counting on it. “What exactly would we have to do to stop people from…monkeying with us?”
She shrugged as if the answer were obvious. “We’d have to pretend to go through with the lottery, of course. We’d do the Twango, so to speak. And remember, the Twango is a garment of illusion. I’ve seen before and after pictures. Trust me, it flattens even the worst beer guts, and I mean the worst. It’s even better than the Drifter, and the Drifter’s twice the price.”
“The Twango and the Drifter,” he managed. Heaven knows why he repeated the names of the comparative items, but Aidan had no idea what else to say.
Bobbie stuck out her hands like balancing scales. “The Drifter is for men who don’t want a lot of wiggling around when they’re on the go. Like you. You don’t want people pulling and tugging at you.” She slightly lifted her right hand. “Now, couple that with the Twango, and you’ll see what I’m getting at here.”
Part of him—the part controlled by logic and sound reason—wanted to issue Bobbie a polite good-bye and send her on her delusional way. But he heard a little voice in his head. That little voice, along with the vivid memories of what the past seven days had entailed, made him want to learn more about what she was proposing.
And it had nothing, absolutely nothing, to do with the fact that she was reasonably attractive.
No way.
He absolutely, emphatically, would not allow himself to be set up in a relationship, and that lottery business smacked of a set-up in its purest form. If he hadn’t known better, he’d have thought it originated with members of his own family.
Still, Aidan clung to the notion of peace and quiet. His notion of paradise had been lowered significantly. He’d settle for simply getting through a shower or a meal without the phone ringing.
“What would I have to do for this Twango-Drifter Plan?” he asked.
She hesitated. Tipped her amber-brown eyes to the ceiling. Fidgeted. And started to nibble on her glossy bottom lip. So, this had likely been an impromptu idea on her part, or else he’d have to do something so thoroughly ridiculous that she could hardly get out the words.
“Well…” And Bobbie hesitated again. She twirled a strand of her shoulder-length, ginger-colored hair around her finger. “To make it believable, I suppose we’d have to spend time together.”
“I don’t have a lot of time as it is.”
He wasn’t counting on that to change much either after the sheriff returned to work. Of all the calls Aidan received since Sheriff Cooper had gotten sick, not one of them had actually been for the sheriff. And no calls had come in to the night deputy, Sam Teton. That likely had something to do with the fact that Sam was seventy-one, had only three strands of hair and could, and did, spit watermelon seeds through the gap in his front teeth.
Her eyebrows flexed. “Hey, I got it. Maybe you could just come to my house after work and watch TV for a couple of hours. Actually, you wouldn’t have to do much of anything other than let people think something’s going on between us. I could even turn off the phone if you’d
