Free Nickeled-And-Dimed to Death by Denise Swanson

Gran’s tone was skeptical. “And I have an arch in St. Louis I can sell you.”
    “It’s the truth,” I protested, backing out of the room so I could stop lying to my grandmother. “I just want to bury the hatchet and be pals again.”
    “In that case”—she nodded to the table where I had laid my cell—“you better not answer your phone.”
    I glanced down. Noah’s name was glowing in the center of the little window and my cell was vibrating. As per Chief Kincaid’s rules, I had turned off the ringer when I was in the police station the night before and had never turned the sound back on.
    Stepping toward the table, I said, “I’ll take this in my room.”
    Gran frowned. “Don’t answer it. Maybe he’ll go away.”
    “I need to thank him for introducing me to his friend.” It was a good thing she didn’t know that my heart was beating faster and a little zing was buzzing up my spine at the memory of our dancing together.
    “Leave the phone there and step away.” Gran made a grab for the cell.
    Snatching up the tiny rectangle just before her fingers closed around it, I scooted backward and hurried out of the kitchen, saying over my shoulder, “Just this one time.”

CHAPTER 8
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    N oah had slept poorly, tossing and turning and trying to find a comfortable spot. Which should have been a damn sight easier to do, considering the Tempur-Pedic mattress and ridiculously expensive sheets the decorator had insisted he needed in order to get a good night’s rest. Too bad the woman hadn’t factored in the thoughts of Dev that had kept him awake. He’d alternated between staring at the ceiling and watching the numbers change on his bedside clock. By six a.m. he was already dressed in his workout clothes and lifting weights. At this rate, he’d be muscle-bound by summer.
    According to the radio announcer, today would be bright and shiny—a promise that springtime was around the corner. The cold, rain, and snow they’d been having during all of March made people think nicer weather would never arrive. During the last few weeks, the Underwood clinic had been filled with patients fighting colds, flu, and pneumonia.
    Not that the below-average temperatures caused these illnesses, but Noah believed that the seasonal depression that so many Shadow Benders were feeling was negatively affecting their health. Maybe the improved forecast would lift everyone’s spirits. The medication and care that he provided could do only so much; the rest depended on the person’s attitude, lifestyle, and emotional state.
    The good weather forecast had momentarily improved Noah’s mood, but as he worked out, he returned to brooding about Dev’s actions the night before. One minute she was laughing and joking with him, and the next minute she was gone. He felt as if he’d been sucker-punched.
    Having Dev in his arms on the dance floor had been incredible. During their long years apart, he’d forgotten how soft she was, and when her curves pressed against him, it had made him want to find the nearest bedroom. He’d envisioned stripping off her pretty dress, arranging her gorgeous hair around her shoulders, and making love to her all night long. The last thing he wanted to do was stop dancing, but he knew he had to release her and put some distance between them before he lost all control.
    Then, later, when they were lining up the items for the auction, it had seemed like old times. It had made him think back to all the high school events they’d planned and put on together—the play rehearsals, pep rallies, and homecomings that had marked their time as a couple.
    So why had Dev run away? What kind of emergency could she have had? It couldn’t be a medical one. As soon as he’d received her message, Noah had called the hospital. And with the nearest urgent-care clinic sixty miles away, the county emergency room was the only choice the locals had for after-hours illnesses and accidents.
    The ER clerk had told Noah that