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Smith & Wesson on the top shelf of the coat closet. “Now you’ll never get rid of her. She’s going to be like a sticker burr on the back of your trousers.”
    â€œAh, I don’t mind,” he replied. “She’s still way nicer than any of my neighbors in the trailer park. They never would’ve stayed up late to bring me a basket with goodies in it. I’d have been lucky to find a Tupperware container on the ground next to my door with a few crumbs left inside.”
    Savannah headed through the living room toward the kitchen, eager to turn on some lights and see the basket’s contents. But suddenly, she found it difficult to walk. Two black cats, tracing figure eights between her ankles in a dark room, turned a simple task into a treacherous obstacle course.
    â€œDi, Cleo, I swear one of these days I’m going to step on you and squash you flatter than a flitter. And when I do, don’t you come running to me, howling about it, ’cause it’ll be your own fault.”
    Dirk hurried ahead of her and flipped on the kitchen light.
    â€œCome on, girls,” he told the cats as he opened an overhead cupboard, took out some cat food, and began to fill their empty dishes. “Don’t pay any attention to your cranky momma. She missed her gourmet dinner. She’s never going to get over it, and we’ll be hearing about it for the rest of our lives.”
    Their mistress utterly forgotten and abandoned, they ran to him, purring like a couple of cheap, twenty-five-cent motel bed vibrators, and buried their faces in the bowls.
    But Savannah took no offense, because she was likewise distracted. Placing the basket on the counter, she slowly peeled back the linen napkin as she savored the anticipation.
    More than once in the course of their relationship, Ryan and John had left a basket such as this on her front porch. And it had always contained something delectable—something that, at least temporarily, made life delicious and well worth living.
    Unfortunately, the last time they had left a batch of butter rum muffins beside her door, a family of raccoons had discovered them first. Upon arriving home Savannah had wept to see the carnage of what would have been a purely orgasmic weekend breakfast.
    No doubt that was the reason they had chosen to leave this offering with her neighbor.
    â€œWell, what is it?” Dirk asked as he made his way to the refrigerator to get his cold, I’m-finally-off-duty beer.
    The napkin removed, Savannah looked inside. And what she saw, nestled there against yet another snowy white napkin, was enough to buttress her belief in a benevolent higher power.
    There was a God. And, at least for tonight, she appeared to be on His good side.
    Granny was right—one good turn deserves another. And as far as Savannah was concerned, she had just been celestially rewarded in a mighty way.
    â€œIt’s a big ol’ raspberry tart,” she told Dirk as he peered over her shoulder, trying to see the bounty. “And a jar of Chambord sauce and another one of Chantilly cream.”
    He leaned down and began to nuzzle her neck, his warm breath giving her delightful little shivers.
    â€œDoes this mean I’m out of the doghouse?” he asked, nibbling her earlobe. “Off the hook, back in your good graces, and all that stuff?”
    She turned, wrapped her arms around his waist, and pulled his body tight against hers. With her deepest, most sultry Southern drawl, she whispered, “Well now, that remains to be seen. It all depends. . . .”
    He gave her a throaty chuckle. “Um-m-m. On what?”
    â€œOn how creative you can get with a jar of Chantilly cream.”

Chapter 3
    â€œI ’m so excited, I’m just about to pee my pants!”
    Savannah looked at the young woman sitting across the table from her and decided that her friend Tammy Hart was telling the truth. Tammy might be the quintessential blond,