Drop Dead Gorgeous. Kimberly Raye

and settled for Babe’s three remaining Twinkies. She also snatched up what was left of a bottle of wine she’d received from one of her customers the Christmas before last.

      Bottle in one hand and sponge cake in the other, she headed upstairs and tried not to think about Dillon and whether or not he’d improved in the kissing department.

      Obviously, he had. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have every woman in town falling all over him.

      Most of the women in town, that is.

      They were just friends, she told herself as she peeled off her clothes and crawled into bed.

      Just like she saw the real Dillon, he saw the real Meg. The one who hadn’t managed to cancel her subscription to Sports Illustrated. The one who still tossed around a baseball in the back-yard every now and then when she was sure her neighbors weren’t looking.

      Which explained why he’d done little more than flirt with her tonight. Not that she’d wanted him to do more.

      It was the principle that mattered.

      Obviously, like everyone else in town, he just couldn’t see the Hot Chick that Meg had become.

      Not yet.

      Not ever a voice whispered. One she quickly ignored as she devoured two of the three cakes, downed a long sip of wine and snuggled under the sheets.

      If Dillon could convince an entire town full of people he’d known since birth, so could she. Even more, she could be convincing enough to get herself into Tilly’s top ten.

      All she had to do was buckle down, learn everything she could from Dillon, and not jump his bones in the process.

      No problem. Manhandler Meg was ancient history.

      At least that’s what she told herself.