She's Gotta Be Mine Read Online Free PDF Page B

doing.
    “The name’s Nick,” he called. “You just stop on by any time you get the itch, ya hear.”
    What a goddamn tragedy she had baggage he had no intention of dealing with, like an ex-husband she wanted to make jealous. Otherwise, he‘d enjoy scratching her itch.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Standing in front of the small bathroom mirror, Bobbie uncapped her lipstick. She hadn’t run away from Nick Angel yesterday afternoon. After she’d decided he wasn’t an animal killer, that he just buried the carcasses, she’d made a tactical retreat.
    Okay, so he hadn’t said he wasn’t a killer. But the way he’d stood with his foot propped on that shovel, chitchatting, almost flirting, he wouldn’t be doing that if he’d been about to bury the evidence of his crime. And he’d made sexual innuendoes about taking off her sweater. Wow, finally, she’d been the object of a sexual allusion. And from a man with an extraordinarily gorgeous chest.
    It was a start. And today was definitely another day.
    But first, BSKFFA—before serial killer full frontal assault—Bobbie had other plans. She needed to find Warren. And she wanted to find a job. Not that she really needed one. She had enough in savings. Then of course, there would be the sale of the house in San Francisco and the division of assets and...darn, she’d smeared her lipstick. That’s what thinking about Warren made her do.
    She wanted to fit in. In Cottonmouth that would be most easily accomplished if she was employed.
    Fifteen minutes later Bobbie wheeled her shopping cart towards Dillings Grocery.
    Janey Dillings , minus the blood-stained apron, washed off the concrete sidewalk. The smell of wet cement rose like perfume in the air. Water hissed from the wall opening where the hose wasn’t properly attached. A fine mist cooled Bobbie after her walk.
    “I brought your cart back. Thanks for letting me borrow it yesterday. I couldn’t have carried all that stuff.”
    “Bobbie. What a sweetie.” The endearment and the delighted use of her name warmed her. “How was the lasagna?”
    “Great. The meat was the best.” Another face-saving little white lie. She hadn’t tasted the lasagna, except for those few bites of sauce she stole while making it. A cook’s treat.
    “Where are you off to?”
    “Job hunting.” Warren hunting.
    Janey pushed her glasses up her nose. “Good luck in this div—I mean, town.”
    “Thanks.” Bobbie already had a destination in mind for the first stop. A rush of cool air whooshed out of the open doors of Dillings Grocery as she passed, the store seeming as empty as it had yesterday. Was there a husband? Roberta would hate to pry. Bobbie was dying to know. She turned, sucked in a breath, then blurted it out. “Is there a Mr. Dillings I haven’t met yet?”
    Janey pointed up, water flashing momentarily across the faded stripes of the awning. “Upstairs.” She rolled her eyes. “Has a migraine,” the word stretching out to match the eye roll.
    “Oh, I know all about migraines.” Not tonight, honey, I have a headache was not a solely female refrain.
    Moving on, there was a bounce to Bobbie’s step despite the reminder of Warren. She’d asked a personal question. And gotten a personal answer. Without getting her head bitten off. Cool. Way cool. Warren would have called it snooping.
    Unlike the rest of the street, the parking spaces in front of The Cooked Goose were filled, as was the small lot at the side. What on earth did a place called The Cooked Goose serve for breakfast that would attract so many customers? Probably some sort of specialty crepes.
    The odor of grease assaulted her nostrils as she opened the door, and the noise level was eardrum-puncture loud. The blemished booths accommodated a primarily male population. Bleached red leather stools and yellow and gray checkerboard linoleum—which once might have been white and black— suggested a fifties motif. A young waitress with skinny legs and taped wire-rim