“And I-I-I-I-I will always love you-u-u—”
Sherry Spencer’s mouth snapped shut when her doorbell rang, startling her into silence. She turned down her radio, then quickly waved a hand over the nail polish drying on bare toes, before hobbling to the door and opening it. She sure hoped she hadn’t been singing so loudly that . . . By the horrified expression on Timmy Walton’s face, she had her answer. He’d heard her.
Life wasn’t fair. God had bestowed upon her a love of music, a gift for writing catchy jingles, and a set of vocal cords that could warp sheetrock. With a sigh, Sherry managed a rueful smile. “Hey, Timmy.”
“More candy for you,” the young delivery boy from Stella’s Sweets said. “Didja land another big account, Ms. Spencer?”
“You can call me Sherry, Timmy,” she said, taking the box from him. “And yep, the Dippity Diaper account is officially mine.” Her mouth watered at the heavenly scent of the rich, dark confections. Gosh, she adored her boss, who knew too well her . . . healthy respect for chocolate. Who needed a personal life when there was chocolate in the world?
Timmy grinned. “Stella says you don’t look old enough to be in high school, much less be an advertising bigwig.”
Not unused to such observations—in fact, sick to death of such observations—Sherry swallowed a retort. After all, Stella and her shop were a godsend. Resisting the urge to rip open the box and gobble one or two sweets right there, she said, “Hold on,” then hip-hopped to her coffee table and purse.
“Dang, all I have is a fifty, Timmy.”
Timmy rolled his eyes, and pulled out a small wad of bills. “Stella always makes me carry extra change on deliveries to you.”
It was endearing having a local candy shop owner who took such good care of her regulars, Sherry decided. Then again, Sherry was probably Stella’s most regular regular. “Keep five,” she said, then accepted the change.
She waved and shut the door, then wobbled back to the couch, trying to walk on her heels to save her pedicure.
Tossing the bills on the coffee table, Sherry reached for the box of chocolates, blessing her sainted boss. But scribbled words on the top bill—a twenty—caught her eye, and she picked it up instead. “‘For a good time, call Kit,’” she read aloud, then took in the phone number, noticing that it had her own area code. “Now there’s an advertising gimmick.”
The handwriting was flowery. Was it Kit’s handwriting? Or was it someone’s idea of revenge on Kit? Should she call Kit and let her know someone was circulating her phone number on currency?
While she debated, Sherry opened the box of chocolates and popped one into her mouth, moaning as the delicious explosion of flavor invaded her senses.
At the very least she owed it to her fellow woman to inform her that someone was bandying her name about. Right? It wasn’t just curiosity. She might be doing someone a favor. A big one.
Having done a darn fine job of justifying her action, Sherry picked up the phone and punched in the number. By the first ring she was having second thoughts. Maybe she should just—
“Yes?” a male voice barked gruffly.
Gulping, she said, “Um, yes, by any chance is Kit there?”
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