I stretched as I woke up and smiled. I’d slept like a log, and it was the best night of sleep I’d had in years. Still groggy, I wet my lips and rolled over, hitting the alarm clock. That’s when I noticed something strange. My black silk robe was covering my arm. I rubbed my eyes, sure I was still dreaming. When I opened them again, the silk robe was covering my other arm as well, and tied in a haphazard bow around my waist. This was the robe I wore to make toast in the morning after my shower, not one I wore to bed—especially when it was as hot as the inside of a volcano outside.

I threw my legs over the side of my bed, trying to remember the previous night, but my memory was fuzzy. I’d gone to Annie’s for dinner, then I’d come home. I’d sat down on the couch to watch TV with my bag of cookies and some milk, and I thought I’d fallen asleep there. So how did I get to my bed?

To say I was disturbed by my lack of memory was an understatement. I was in the beginning stages of a freak out. One that escalated to full-on meltdown when I untied my robe and found I was wearing my sexiest, see-through except for a few strategically placed pieces of lace, black and hot pink lingerie.

I had no recollection of how it got on my body. My heart was racing as I walked through the house, hoping that something would trigger my memory—and hoping also that the something wouldn’t be a strange man. I paused and frowned—or a familiar one.

The house was empty as I padded down the hallways on my hardwood floors. I went in the kitchen and noted that the back door was locked and secure. Every room I’d checked so far didn’t include my secret, stray lover. When I got to the front room, I noticed the bottom door handle lock was secure, but the deadbolt hadn’t been engaged. I locked the deadbolt every night without fail so that seemed fishy.

I looked around my living room and noticed my cell on the coffee table. I rushed to the table and sat down to look through my messages, hoping there would be a clue as to what had happened the night before. I looked through all of my social media accounts; no information there. I scrolled through phone calls, nothing strange. No text messages either.

I furrowed my brows in total confusion. Why couldn’t I remember what had happened? And why was I wearing my throw-me-against-a-wall-and-screw-me uniform?

The only concession I had to my night of unremembered passion was the fact that I was still wearing the lingerie. If I’d done anything scandalous, my clothes would have been missing—in theory.

The questions continued to plague me all through my shower. I hated not knowing things, and not knowing something that might have involved my girl parts was upsetting, for multiple reasons, including the fact that I hadn’t been laid in over a year, and really wanted it to be memorable, and preferably with a hot private investigator named Hawke. Was he even back in town?

I stretched my legs and arms a bit as I got out of the shower, testing my muscles. Considering my dry spell, if I’d done any sort of sheet gymnastics, I was sure something would have hurt. Nothing did. That made me feel better. I was relatively confidant nothing had happened other than a costume change, but I still wished I knew the exact series of events.

I thought about it on my way to work, and screwed my face up into a determined expression as I walked in the back door of the Tribune office. I’d figure out the lingerie mystery if it was the last thing I did. I made a pit-stop by the treat table. Spence had brought doughnuts from Frosted Paradise and considering the morning I’d already had, nothing could make me happier than carbs. I took a bite, and almost choked as I turned around, noticing my desk. There was a humongous bouquet of brightly colored flowers in the middle of it. I looked across the room at Spence’s office where he was working on his laptop. “Hey,” I said, my voice hesitant.

Spence glanced up from his work. “Hey, yourself. Nice flowers.”

“Yeah…about that…do you know who delivered them?” I was hoping the mystery flower giver had dropped them off himself.

Spence shook his head. “They were delivered by Beautiful Bouquets this morning.”

I wrinkled my nose as I stared at the appropriately named beautiful bouquet like it was a ticking time bomb. For all I knew, it could be. After several seconds of debate about whether to extract the card or call the police, I finally decided to read the note. I gingerly pulled the card out of its envelope, and exhaled a deep breath when nothing exploded. Sheesh. I was spending too much time with my mother.

The card had a border of frilly pink loops, and a message written on the inside in strong, angular letters. It said: I hope I get to see your wild side again soon.

My mouth fell open. And stayed there. I knew two men with handwriting similar to that. One I’d be happier about witnessing me in my screw-me clothes than the other. Regardless, though. It was humiliating. And the fact that I couldn’t remember any details at all made it even worse. My number one goal was to avoid both Hawke and Drake until my memory decided to return, and I knew whether I should be grateful to them for not taking advantage of me, or if I should hire a hit man.

I sat back, thinking through everything all over again. I’d gone to Annie’s, antagonized Drake, argued with him while checking out his great ass, and then I’d gone home and eaten myself into a cookie coma.

I picked up the phone and called Annie. “Hey,” I said when she answered. “Did you or Rich have any strange reactions to our food last night?”

“No,” Annie answered, confusion in her tone. “Is something wrong? Are you sick?”

I shook my head even though she couldn’t see me. “No, I’m fine. I just had some memory issues this morning.”

“Too much sparkling cider,” Annie said, her voice teasing.

“Something like that.”

“Well, let me know if you want me to take a look at you. Or if you’re feeling strange, go to the hospital.”

“Thanks,” I said, and hung up.

I probably should have called Drake to ask him about his health situation too, but I wasn’t ready to deal with that conversation if he’d been the one to see me in nothing but lace.

The thought of Drake made me remember his challenge to investigate him like I’d investigated—and defended—Hawke. I pulled up the Tribune’s background search software and typed in his name. I got a list of all of his properties—which were substantial—bank accounts—also substantial—and found out he’d never been married. Surprise, surprise. I snorted, thinking the background check service would be envied by many women in Branson. If the Ladies knew about his financial state, they’d be trying even harder to wrangle him. Money didn’t impress me; however, character did.

The background check was helpful, but not exactly what I needed for information about who Drake really was. I did a search for Dylan Drake’s personal life. I found several articles about the charities he was involved in, including the children’s hospital in Salt Lake. He was also a huge fundraiser for one of my favorite animal shelters. No wonder he spent so much time in Salt Lake instead of Branson. Aside from his duties with the legislature, he was on the board of trustees for so many non-profits that he’d have to live there just to make it to all the meetings.

Reading about his philanthropic efforts made my stomach flip, and I thought I might be having a change of heart about him until I clicked on images, and saw all of the women he’d been photographed with. They were all stunning with bodies that would make a goddess jealous, and ginormous boobs. I hated every single one of them. My eyes narrowed as I realized I was feeling envy for the women on Drake’s arm. I didn’t want to be one of them…did I? I was contemplating this unwelcome question when Spence called to me from his office. “There’s a story at the high school you need to get to.”

I lifted my eyes to meet his. “About what?”

“Immodest clothes. The TV news stations are on their way, and I’m sure it will go national.”

I took a deep breath and rolled my eyes. Someone had probably been sent home for wearing shorts that were shorter than three inches above their knees. Legs are scary. “Okay, I’ll take care of it.”

I grabbed another doughnut on my way out the door. If anything could make me feel better at this point, it was copious amounts of chocolate frosting and sugar.

 

 

All high school seniors in Branson Falls had senior portraits done every summer. The photos usually had several different shots, and each student could choose which photo they wanted to use for their senior picture in the yearbook. They were supposed to pick the finished photos up on the first day of school.

Some seniors—all girls—had gone in to get their pictures and realized that their photos had been altered. Some of them were wearing a lot more clothes than they had been during their photo shoots. One girl’s neckline had been altered to be higher, even though the shirt she originally wore showed no cleavage; another girl’s tattoo had been removed; and three girls’ tank tops now had sleeves. In every instance, the photos had been changed to correspond with Mormon Church modesty standards. I was annoyed. I thought I’d eventually get used to crazy stories relating to the church governing everything in the state, but this was ridiculous.

By the time I arrived, there was already a group of angry parents and students arguing in the main office. The sides were clearly divided into Team Tank Top, and Team Modesty. The arguing was impressive.

“You don’t get to decide what’s okay for my kids to wear,” one angry mother pointed out to a mom on Team Modesty.

“Well someone has to,” another angry mother shot back, “because you’re not doing your job.”

Blood rose in the first woman’s cheeks, her anger visible. “You have no right to judge me—or my daughter.”

“Your daughter’s clothes are temptin’ my son!” A Team Modesty mom shot back. “When he does something he shouldn’t, it’ll be the fault of girls like your daughter!”

I was furious at the opinion, and I wasn’t the only one. Blood started to rise in Team Tank Top’s face, and I could see her pulse beating furiously at her neck, adrenaline and anger coursing through her. “It’s not a woman’s job to regulate what someone else feels. If showing shoulders in a tank top is too tempting, someone needs to teach your son self-control. And it doesn’t say much for what you think of your son if you believe seeing a girl in a tank top is going to make him an uncontrollable sex fiend.”

One person on the Team Modesty turned to me and hissed, “This is all your fault. You’re the one who started wearin’ tank tops. You made girls think that was normal and tempted them into bein’ Jezebels. You need to realize what your immodest clothes are doin’ to people.”

My mouth fell open. I’d been blamed for a lot of things since moving back to Branson Falls, but corrupting people as a result of my clothing choices was a new sin. I’d have to write it down so I’d make sure to remember it—and do it again. When someone tried to tell me what to do, I made it a point to do the exact opposite.

I really shouldn’t have said anything, but passive-aggressive was not something I’d ever been, or ever would be. I’d rather get my feelings out on the table, deal with them, and move on instead of harboring resentment and trying to get my point across in a sneaky way that would most likely be lost on the individual anyhow. So, I spoke up, like usual. And would probably pay for it later. At least I’d been true to myself. “I believe Mormons are taught that they have the free agency to make choices, and they’re not supposed to judge people for their decisions. How is your reaction to these girls’ clothing choices honoring either of those things?” I asked.

The Team Modesty woman’s face went fire engine red, and I could practically see the steam coming out of her ears. I could tell she wanted desperately to launch into an argument with me. The problem was, she didn’t have one. No counterpoint. At all. I was certain she was about to attack something completely unrelated to my question when the principal stepped into the room. “Everyone,” his voice was deep, and louder than the fervor. “Let’s try to discuss this in a civilized manner,” he said, attempting to calm everyone down.

Aside from my argument with Team Modesty, there were a lot of smaller arguments happening all around me. The situation was only escalating as the principal kept talking. He eventually got the two sides separated in different rooms, and that’s when I was allowed to talk to them in my capacity as reporter.

I had empathy for the girls. They were sitting with their parents, and someone had procured Saints and Sinners Cookies and put them on a plate in the middle of the table. I thought that was smart; I knew from first-hand experience that desserts were a good way to diffuse emotions. The cookies looked tasty, and I wondered where they’d come from since Drake and Annie said the cookies had sold out at the fair.

“You have Saints and Sinners Cookies?” I asked one of the office assistants who had just come in with some bottled water for everyone.

She nodded. “They’re selling them in a kiosk in the cafeteria before school and during lunch.”

Interesting. I knew what my next stop would be. Not only did a cookie sound good, but I still hadn’t been able to get the cookie company to call me back. I was hoping I’d have more luck at the kiosk.

The meeting went on, and I talked to the Team Tank Top girls and let them know I was on their side personally, even if I did have to tell Team Modesty’s story in the Tribune. “I understand. Every time I wear a tank top in town, I get glared at.”

“It’s too hot!” one of the girls said, throwing her hands in the air. “And why are tank tops bad, but swimsuits are okay? The cheerleaders and dance team are allowed to break clothes rules, so why can’t everyone else?”

I shook my head in disgust for the silly policies. “I never understood that either.”

I went to the Team Modesty room next, and got glared at while I asked questions. I got the quotes I needed for the story, said hi to some of the TV reporters I knew who were now on the scene and getting ready to do their stand-ups for the noon news, then quietly excused myself.

Since it was just before lunch, the cafeteria was open. I looked around the room at the various kiosks. Branson students were allowed to leave campus for lunch, but with only a thirty minute meal period, it was hard to leave, eat, and get back before classes started again. Because of that, the school allowed a few restaurants around town to serve their food in the cafeteria. I saw the bright blue Saints and Sinners Cookies sign and headed in that direction. Then almost tripped when I realized who was manning the booth.

Amber Kane.

Amber was one of The Ladies, and an evil one at that—more evil than most. We’d had many run-ins, both before I left Branson Falls for college, and especially since I got back. She seemed to be under the impression that I was diddling every eligible bachelor in town. Before last night, I could have called her a complete liar. Now, I wasn’t so sure.

Her harassment had resulted in threats from Spence, Drake, and Hawke to leave me alone. She hadn’t been happy about those, either.

She looked up and saw me, her frizzy, permed hair becoming even more electric before my eyes. Her face screwed up into a look that said she might try to kill me with one of her cookies. Her hands showed white knuckles as I approached.

“Hi, Amber,” I said with a too-sweet smile. “I didn’t know you worked here.”

Her nostrils were flaring so hard I thought they might shoot fire. “I just started.”

I nodded. “How do you like the company?”

“Why,” she said with a sneer, “you lookin’ for a job? I bet you’re great at sellin’ things—like your soul.”

I gave her a smile meant to be unpleasant, and asked another question instead of responding to her provocations. “Do you know the people who run the company?” I’d left two messages, but still hadn’t received a phone call back. I wanted to interview them and find out more about their treats, and why they thought everyone was obsessed with their cookies.

“Selma saw you talkin’ to Drake at Annie and Rich’s house yesterday,” Amber said.

I held back a sigh. Amber had a bee in her bonnet—as usual when it came to dealing with me. I knew I wouldn’t get any other answers out of her. “Selma is almost ninety. I don’t think I’d use her as one of your watchdogs.” She’d probably confuse Drake and a bear.

“His truck was there. She’s not the only one who saw it. Then, his truck was at your house for over two hours last night.”

My eyes widened and I fought to keep my expression under control. Now I knew the identity of the flower sender—and the person who had gotten me to bed…at least, I hoped I knew, and that he just put me to bed, and didn’t crawl in too.

My face immediately got hot as the humiliation sunk in. A humiliation I still couldn’t fully remember. It wasn’t like I could ask him what had happened. He’d think I was insane. Ugh. This would have been so much easier if my mystery lover had been Hawke. Still embarrassing, but he knew about my quirks and had his own issues. He wouldn’t judge me.

I took a deep breath and put everything to the back of my mind so I could answer Amber’s accusations. “Drake was at a dinner at Annie and Rich’s. So was I. And it’s really none of your business.”

She tsked, and her lips formed an annoyed sneer. Drake had been at the top of Amber Kane and Jackie Wall’s—the Ladies’ leader—list of replacement husbands after they’d both gotten divorced. Drake didn’t seem interested in either one of them, and for some ridiculous reason, actually seemed to be paying attention to me instead. The Ladies had made me pay for Drake’s attentiveness ever since I moved back to Branson earlier this year. “You live in Branson, Kate. Everything is our business.”

I rolled my eyes. I wasn’t going to get into this with her. It wasn’t worth it. I had work to do. And now I couldn’t get a cookie either because Amber was serving them. She’d probably poison mine.

“Thanks, Amber. You’re always such a pleasure to talk to,” I said in a sarcastic tone before walking away.

I was still irritated at the photo altering, and that combined with the Amber altercation made me feel like eating all the sugar. In the world. I left to go back to the office and work on the Show a Little Shoulder story—including a comparison photo of the digitally altered pictures, and what the girls actually wore.