Dead Sexy. Kimberly Raye

had computer problems, Dill had confiscated her machine for two weeks and she’d been forced to manually schedule several weeks worth of appointments.

      “This afternoon.”

      “Really?” Hope blossomed. Maybe her day wasn’t going to hell in a handbasket after all.

      He grinned. “Just consider it an early wedding present.”

      Before the words could register, she heard Charlie’s shriek. “Oh, my God. She’s here, everyone. She’s here!”

      “Who?” Nikki turned and glanced behind her as Charlie abandoned his station and rushed toward her, his arms open wide.

      He caught her and gave her a delicate smack on the cheek. “To think the ladies’ bingo squad actually placed bets that you butter your bread on the wrong side.”

      Charlie had his long blond hair pulled back into a chic ponytail. He wore a clingy black button-up polyester shirt, à la Tim McGraw, tight faded jeans and a polished pair of what the local cowboys referred to as roach killers. His boots were pointy and shiny with just enough heel to add two inches to his petite five-foot-four frame.

      “Why, those old biddies wouldn’t know a lesbian if she up and smacked them on their polyester-covered asses.” He stepped back, his gaze dropping to the white blouse Nikki had pulled on when she’d stopped off at her house. His smile widened. “Try getting dressed with the lights on next time, honey. Your fiancé will love it.”

      Nikki glanced down and saw the uneven shirttails and the lone button she’d missed. From the corner of her eye she saw Dillon’s ears fire a bright shade of crimson before he turned back to her hard drive and started unhooking wires at the speed of light.

      “I was in a hurry,” she blurted. Frantically she plucked open the last three buttons and slid them into their designated holes. “I overslept and—” Her words died as her gaze collided with Charlie’s and reality hit. “Fiancé? Did you just say fiancé?”

      Charlie nodded. “Mr. Tall, Dark and Do Me from the motel. I’d be majorly offended that you didn’t kiss and tell since I am your closest friend, but I’m too relieved. Not that I thought you were a lesbian. It’s just…let’s face it, sugar, you’ve had rotten luck with men.” He shrugged and turned.

      Nikki headed for her station while Charlie picked up his comb and started teasing the brown hair in front of him. “Which leads me to believe,” he went on, “that you attract these losers on a more subconscious level because a) you just don’t want to be successful at love or b) you’re definitely climbing into bed from the opposite side.”

      “Couldn’t it be a and b?” The question came from the twenty-something brunette buffing nails in the far corner. Familiar green eyes peered over the top of a pair of conservative wire frames.

      Cheryl Anne was sweet, bubbly and extremely spoiled. She was also Dillon’s kid sister, and therefore, a bit on the geeky side, thanks to DNA. In an effort to shed the big G image, she’d chosen cosmetology rather than pre-law. A choice that hadn’t upset her parents in the least because it meant that she could continue to live at home; they’d been heartbroken when Dill had up and moved to his own place at the tender age of twenty-seven. Their father—a local justice of the peace—routinely brought Cheryl Anne lunch and gassed up the sixty-thousand-dollar BMW he’d given her when she’d received her nail license. Their mother stopped by daily to offer the use of her credit cards or bring a round of lattes.

      “Maybe she’s subconsciously hooking up with losers because she really wants to hook up with a woman,” Cheryl Anne went on.

      Charlie wagged a comb at her. “That’s what I said.”

      “No, you didn’t.” Buff, buff. “You said a or b. Not a or b, or a and b.”

      “That’s right.” The brown football helmet sitting in Charlie’s chair blew at a teased piece of bang that had fallen into her eyes. “You just said or.”

      “I meant or or and.” Charlie picked up a section of hair and worked the comb through it. “It’s a figure of speech. It can go either way.” He shot Cheryl Anne a glare. “Stop making a fuss. You’re taking away from Nikki’s special moment.”

      “Congratulations,” echoed down the row of women perched under the dryers.

      “We’re so happy for you.” Cheryl Anne paused midbuff and beamed at Nikki. “I have this totally hot nail kit especially for brides. You have to let me try it out. It has rhinestone appliqués.”

      “I’m definitely doing your hair,” Charlie chimed in. “I’m thinking an updo with pearls—”

      “Wait,” Nikki cut in, her mind racing. Married? She wasn’t getting married. Of all the ridiculous notions—

      “You’re right,” Charlie cut into the denial that raced through her head. “Pearls are so precocious. You’re definitely more a rhinestone girl.”

      “I love rhinestones,” Cheryl Anne piped in.

      “Me, too,” the brown football helmet added.

      “I’m not getting married,” Nikki blurted. “That’s crazy.”

      “Of course it is. You just got engaged. You probably haven’t even set a date. You haven’t, have you?” Before Nikki could tell him that she wasn’t getting married now—or ever, with the way her luck was running—he rushed on. “While I can understand that he might have just asked you and you haven’t really had time to tell everyone, I know with absolute, positive certainty that you wouldn’t set a date without telling your best friend. It was bad enough hearing about the engagement from Janice Simcox, who heard it from Rochelle Pryor, who heard it from her brother Mitchell Davis, who heard it from Eldin—”