“Shhh.” She set a finger against my lips and smiled. Love shimmered in her eyes. “Anything coming from you will put his ring to shame.”
My chest tightened and I almost couldn’t breathe. “God help me, girl. I’m so in love with you…I-I can’t even think straight.” I swallowed. “Shannon Bradford, will you marry—”
Before I even finished, she tackled me on the bed.
I laughed beneath a deluge of hugs, kisses, and squeals. “Uh, does that mean ‘yes’?”
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Hell Freezes Over…Again
TRACE
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Society Scoop
By: Erica Davies, Senior Editor, The Dirty Dish
Hello, darlings, it’s great to be back at the helm, and I appreciate all your thoughtful cards and letters. My honeymoon was stellar! But then, how could a two-month cruise around the world with the sexiest man alive be anything but fab? J.T. sends his regards, and his new movie “Unthinkable” will be coming soon to a theater near you.
Now unless you’ve lived in a cave for the past two months, you must’ve heard all the sordid details surrounding the Lilith Bradford murder drama in Willow’s Corner, West Virginia. I won’t bore you with a recap. Besides, I’ve got a related story that will blow that rusty boat right out of the water.
Some time back, I announced the engagement of Shannon Bradford and Darien Montgomery. As you’ll recall, Montgomery was the prosecutor who sent Tracemore “Butcher Boy” Dawson to the slammer. Given recent events, we now know Dawson was an innocent man.
But I digress….
Long story short, Montgomery and Bradford have called it quits. In the immortal words of B.B. King, “The Thrill Is Gone.” I got it straight from one of the horse’s mouths. Believe it or not, Shannon Bradford herself called Yours Truly, two months ago, giving me the 411 of a lifetime.
Since I was on my honeymoon, this story languished on my voice mail. But here’s the cherry on top. Young Miss Bradford is gaga for the Butcher Boy—as in head-over-heels.
Before you ask, yes, I did check the source. I called Bradford three days ago. Regretfully, an earlier column I ran about her was steeped in fiction. You remember the S&M and swinging? Well, that source was as genuine as a six-dollar bill.
In this case, not only did Bradford confirm the voice mail she left, she also gave me two juicy updates. When I asked why she decided to go public, in The Dirty Dish, no less, she simply replied, “I want the world to know how much I love him.”
Awwwww…..
Here’s another crouton to toss on your salad. Bradford and her Butcher Boy exchanged vows two months ago at someplace called Miller’s Pond in Willow’s Corner, and the pair honeymooned in Paris. They’re also expecting an autumn visit from the stork.
But that’s not all. Following his rousing success in the Kidd Mann murder trial, Darien Montgomery of Jacobs and Montgomery (Sears Bradford has since left the firm) will represent Dawson in his petition to get his sentence overturned.
Now if this isn’t a sign that the apocalypse is upon us, I don’t know what is.
I rolled the tabloid into a funnel and tossed it on the dashboard of my brand-new Jeep. I kept my face neutral and stared down the quiet street in New Dyer’s historic district, knowing my wife had been sitting on pins and needles for the past two minutes.
“Well?” Shannon prompted.
“Interesting.”
“Interesting?”
I slanted a brow up. “Yep.”
She snatched the funnel from the dashboard and started beating me over the head with it.
I burst out laughing, grabbed the paper weapon, and hauled her into my lap. “You’re sexy as hell when you’re mad.”
“Interesting?” she yelled. “You call that interesting? Do you have any idea how hard I—”
I crushed my lips to hers, wishing I could crawl inside her mouth, she tasted that sweet. The battle of tongues went on for a good five minutes. While our kisses grew in intensity, so did the voice in my head, the one that warned if we didn’t stop, I’d have to take her hard and fast in the front seat of my Jeep. Again. We’d done it last week after I’d picked her up from her therapy session with Doc. She’d had a breakthrough and decided sex in a Jeep was a great way to celebrate. My back still hadn’t recovered.
I slowed the cadence of my kisses. Moved my mouth from hers, to her cheeks, her eyelids, while I slid my hand up and down her arm—my way of bringing her back to reality. Once our breathing turned sluggish, I rested my forehead against hers. I was holding the most beautiful woman in the world.
My bride. My wife, my dream come true.
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
Her angelic face lit up. “You liked it?”
“Nope. I loved it.”
She beamed a smile, but then her eyes began to well. Baby hormones. “How was I to know she was on her stupid honeymoon? Two months I waited.”
I chuckled. “Yes, but it was still a beautiful surprise.” I nudged my chin at the crumpled tabloid. “That right there’s the fourth best thing you ever gave me.”
She frowned. “The fourth?”
“Uh-huh.”
“What’s number three?”
I grinned down at her. “The gorgeous hand you gave me in marriage.” I kissed her upturned palm, and did the same to each of her fingers.
“And number two?”
I flattened my hand on her belly. “This precious baby.”
Her eyes twinkled with delight. “And what’s number one?”
I tipped her chin up. “You, Mrs. Dawson.”
Then I slammed my mouth over hers and we went at it again. Seemed all we ever did was make love. Shannon said baby hormones made her frisky. But hell, I wasn’t complaining. If this was a pregnancy side effect, I’d keep her in the family way forever. And after two minutes of tongue hockey, I was rock-hard and ready to explode.
“Hey,” I breathed. “Unless you plan on giving the neighbors another show, we’d best get in the house.”
She righted her clothes. “But we’ll be late.”
“Twenty minutes, tops.”
Cholly had sent Shannon a personal invitation to The Slam Dunk’s grand opening, which was in less than an hour. Bev got one too. Hopefully, she’d leave Icky home.
Shannon grabbed her purse. “Which room?”
“The kitchen. We haven’t done it in there yet. Come on.”
I dragged her out with me, but remembered the satchel with my calculus book in the back. After I slid the strap over my shoulder and slammed the door, I stood with Shannon beneath the carport of the Victorian she’d fallen in love with—the house that was now our home.
I’d made a sizable down payment with the sale of Gary’s cracker box, hoping the move would distract Shannon from all the chaos going on in her family. For weeks, her aunt’s arrest had hung over her like a dark cloud. And with Sheriff Gray’s death and Mead’s governor’s bid in the toilet, I wanted more than anything to lift Shannon’s spirits. From the looks of things, my plan had worked. Seeing the happiness in my wife’s eyes while I renovated her dream house filled me with joy like nothing else. But her new billboards ran a close second.
Shannon Dawson of Dawson Realty: A Name You Can Trust.
Hot damn! I grinned every time I drove past one of them.