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“You’re payin’ that back, Benji,” I seethed, almost ready to cry as I realized just how much money I’d wasted. “And boys, next time call ahead. Also no, I’m not makin’ pancakes. It’s almost one a.m.”

“I’m sorry. Please, Mommy,” Benji whined.

Micah seemed to be feeling bolder than usual. “We did call, several times, but you didn’t answer. Besides, this is our house too. We shouldn’thaveto call.”

“It is and it will always be, unless I sell it. But we’re all adults, so maybe we could act like it and respect each other’s boundaries?”

“Sell our home?” Benji said incredulously. “I don’t think so. And moms don’t have boundaries.”

Well, that’s the end of your newfound sex life, Aubrey. You shoulda waved goodbye when it drove off in a shiny RAM dually with a HEMI V-8.

“Oh my God!”Roxi screeched into her phone the next morning when I told her what happened.

The cool front that had moved into Wisper the night before was perfect because no one would think anything of me hiding inan oversized hoodie and beanie. Maybe if I pulled it down over my face, I could avoid looking my kids in the eye.

“Did they see?—?”

“I have no idea! I’m too embarrassed to ask.”

“What’d Rye do?”

“Pulled the covers over his straining erection, Ihope.”

The bell jangled on the front door.

“Gotta go. Customer,” I told Roxi. “I’ll call you later.”

Whoever had stepped into Your Local Bookie was hidden behind a tall spinning rack of Harlequins and used cowboy romances. You’d think they’d sell more given our location, but maybe Wisper’s female population got enough cowboy in their real lives. Maybe my Bag a Cowboy idea was a non-starter. I’d have to get some outside input. But if the genre was wrong, maybe I could tweak it to something else.

“Welcome to Your Local Bookie. What kinda fictional trouble can I help?—”

“Hello, Aubrey,” Calla Graves said when she stepped around the rack, holding a used western stepback romance in her hand.

“Mrs. Graves. Hi.”Uh oh. Her being in my store first thing Monday morning did not bode well for me, especially not after my performance at Rye’s birthday dinner. “How are you?”

“Oh, I’m fine, dear, but please call me Calla. How are you?”

“I-I’m… okay. It’s nice to see you again so soon. Are you lookin’ for somethin’ specific?”

“I am, in fact.” She looked me up and down, focusing on my Montana State sweatshirt that was three sizes too big and my disheveled hair beneath my hat. “I’m lookin’ for you.”

“Oh?” I asked, slipping the beanie off and tossing it behind me.

I combed my fingers through my hair but gave up trying to tame the frizz when I realized my appearance wouldn’t change the direction of wherever this conversation would go.

Glancing around the shop, she took a few graceful steps toward the contemporary fiction shelves. Even the way she moved seemed rich. Her cream-colored slacks and matching blouse with its wide, sweeping sleeves felt out of place in my dusty store. She looked more like the head of a publishing house than she did a customer.

She touched the cover of a popular women’s fiction title written by a fabulous Crow author from Montana. “I’ll take this,” she said, and she held up the cowboy romance still in her hand. “This as well. Do you have anything that’s maybe… a little risqué? Somethin’ different than what you might imagine I’d read?”

“Um. Yes, of course.”

Without Rye here to make me brave, I felt like a teenager again in her presence.Man, you really picked the wrong day to show up to work lookin’ like a ragamuffin.

When I walked around the counter, straightening my sweatshirt, though nothing I did would make me look like her, she smiled demurely. “Are you not feelin’ well, dear?”

“No, ma’am. I feel fine. Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” Except there was a reason. She clearly didn’t approve of my work attire.