out on your keister. Red. Neon pink. Even a print—like cheetah or zebra. Something that says you’ve got a sex drive and you know how to use it. And the skimpier, the better, too. Show a little leg. Some cleavage. Men like cleavage. It gets their full attention every time.”
“For the last time—this wasn’t a social visit.” Gracie eyed Trina’s black leather miniskirt. “I’m a public figure. I can’t prance around looking like an extra from Jersey Shore. Besides, he hates me, and a dress—skimpy or not—isn’t going to change that.”
“I’m telling you, a good dress is like magic. Slip it on and it’ll transform you from a stuffy politician into a major slut. You do remember how much fun being a little slutty can be, don’t you?”
As if she could ever forget.
She’d been the baddest girl in high school with the worst reputation, and she’d liked it. She’d liked doing the unexpected and following her gut and having some fun. And she’d really liked Jesse James Chisholm.
So much so that she’d been ready to put off attending the University of Texas—her uncle’s alma mater—to follow Jesse onto the rodeo circuit. To continue their wild ride together, cheer him on and take enough live-action shots to launch her dream career as a photographer.
But then Jackson had been killed, and Charlie had stopped talking for six months. She’d realized then that she couldn’t just turn her back on her little sister and go her own way as her brother had done after their parents had died. Charlie needed her.
And she needed Charlie.
So she’d packed up her camera and her dreams and started playing it safe. She’d followed in her uncle’s footsteps, securing a business degree before taking a position as city planner.
Meanwhile, Jesse had ridden every bull from here to Mexico.
They were worlds apart now, and when they did happen to land within a mile radius of each other, the animosity was enough to keep the wall between them thick. Impenetrable.
Animosity because not only had Gracie stood him up on the night they were supposed to leave, but she’d refused to talk to him about it, terrified that if she heard his voice or saw him up close, her determination would crumble. Fearful that the bad girl inside of her would rear her ugly head and lust would get the better of her.
Lust, not love.
She hadn’t been able to leave with Jesse, and she’d refused to ask him to give up his life’s dream to stay with her in a town that had caused him nothing but pain, and so she’d done the best thing for both of them—she’d broken off all contact.
And her silence had nearly cost him his career.
Not this time.
She’d given him fair warning about the inevitable influx of reporters and now she could get back to work and, more important, forget how good he smelled and how his eyes darkened to a deep, fathomless shade of purple whenever he looked at her.
She fought down the sudden yearning that coiled inside of her. “I don’t do slut anymore,” she told her assistant.
“Duh.” Trina shrugged. “You’ve been wearing those Spanx so long, you’ve forgotten how to peel them off and cut loose.”
If only.
But that was the trouble in a nutshell. She’d never really forgotten. Deep in her heart, in the dead of night, she remembered what it felt like to live for the moment, to feel the rush of excitement, to walk on the wild side. It felt good—so freakin’ good—and she couldn’t help but want to feel that way again.
Just once.
Not that she was acting on that want. No way. No how. No sirree. Charlie needed a home and the people of Lost Gun needed a mayor, and Gracie needed to keep her head on straight and her thoughts out of the gutter.
“So what’s on the agenda today?” she blurted, eager to get them back onto a safer subject. “City council meeting? Urgent political strategy session? Constituent meet and greet?” She needed something—anything—to get her mind off Jesse James Chisholm and the fact that he’d looked every bit as good as she remembered. And then some. “Surely Uncle E.J. left a big pile of work before he headed for Port Aransas to close on the new house?”
“Let’s see.” Trina punched a few buttons on her computer. “You’re in luck. You’ve got a meeting with Mildred Jackson from the women’s sewing circle—she wants the city to commission a quilt for your new office.”
“That’s it?”
“That and a trip to the animal shelter.” When Gracie arched an eyebrow, Trina added, “I’ve been reading this article online about politicians and their canine friends. Do you know that a dog ups your favorability rating by five percent?”
“I already have a dog.”
“A ball of fluff who humps everything in sight doesn’t count.” When Gracie gave her a sharp look, she shrugged. “Not that I have anything against humping, but you’ve got a reputation to think of. A horny mutt actually takes away poll points.”
“Sugar Lips isn’t a mutt. She’s a maltipom. Half Maltese. Half Pomeranian.” Trina gave her a girlfriend, pu-leeze look and she added, “I’ve got papers to prove it.”
“Labs and collies polled at the top with voters, and the local shelter just happens to have one of each,” Trina pressed. “Just think how awesome it will look when the new mayor-elect waltzes in on Adopt-a-Pet Day and picks out her new Champ or Spot.”
“Don’t tell me—Champ and Spot were top-polling animal names?”
“Now you’re catching on.”
Gracie shook her head. “I can’t just bring home another dog. Sugar will freak. She has control issues.”
“Think of the message it will send to voters. Image is everything.”
As if she didn’t know that. She’d spent years trying to shake her own bad image, to bury it down deep, to make people forget, and she’d finally succeeded. Twelve long years later, she’d managed to earn the town’s loyalty. Their trust.
Now it was just a matter of keeping it.
She shrugged. “Okay, I’ll get another dog.”
“And a date,” Trina added. “That way people can also envision you as the better half of a couple, i.e., family oriented.”
“Where do you get this stuff?”
“PerfectPolitician.com. They say if you want to project a stable, reliable image, you need to be in a stable, reliable relationship. I was thinking we should call Chase Carter. He’s president of the bank, not to mention a huge campaign contributor. He’s also president of the chamber of commerce and vice president of the zoning commission.”
And about as exciting as the 215-page car-wash proposition just submitted by the president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary for next year’s fundraiser.
Gracie eyed her assistant. “Isn’t Chase gay?”
“A small technicality.” Trina waved a hand. “This is about image, not getting naked on the kitchen table. I know he isn’t exactly a panty dropper like Jesse James Chisholm, but—”
“Call him.” Chase wasn’t Jesse, which made him perfect dating material. He wouldn’t be interested in getting her naked and she wouldn’t be interested in getting him naked. And she certainly wouldn’t sit around fantasizing about the way his thigh muscles bunched when he crossed a rodeo arena.
She ignored the faint scent of dust and leather that still lingered on her clothes and shifted her attention to something safe. “Do you know anything about Big Earl Jessup?” She voiced the one thing besides Jesse Chisholm and his scent that had been bothering her since she’d left the training arena.
“I