Plum Orchard, Georgia, is about to get even juicierâ¦
Notorious mean girl Dixie Davis is back in town and itâs payback time. Literally. Dixie is flat broke and her bestâmake that onlyâfriend, Landon, is throwing her a lifeline from the Great Beyond. Dixie stands to inherit his businessâ¦if she meets a few conditions:
Sheâs got to live in Landonâs mansion.
With her gorgeous ex-fiancé, Caine Donovan.
Who could also inherit the business.
Which is a phone sex empire.
Wait, what?
Landonâs will lays it out: whoever gets the most new clients becomes the owner of Call Girls. Dixie has always been in it to win it, especially when it comes to Caine, whoâs made it clear heâs not going down easy. (Oh, mercy.) Can Dixie really talk dirty and prove that sheâs cleaned up her act? Game on!
For my agent, whom I lovingly call Agent Fab, Elaine Spencer. Youâre a gladiator, my friend. There are no words in the English language to adequately describe how dear I hold the notion that you have always believed.
Also, to the many folks whoâve been involved in making this project a reality:
My editor, Leonore Waldripâfor seeing this one little crazy idea/book in its earliest stages and passing it on. Add to the mix your amazing sense of humor and genius brainstorming, makes you a keeper.
Emily Ohanjanians, your insight, attention to detail, and overall brilliance will forever influence the future words that flow from my fingertips.
An enormous nod to the show Hart Of Dixie, my inspiration for writing Southern fiction. I love every âbless your heart, Lemon Breeland, Lavon Hayes, Annabeth Nass, Zadeâ moment spent with you each week. If youâre a fan of the show, youâll know what I mean when I cry, ZADE forever!
To all of my amazing readersâreally who else can I count on to talk about anti-inflammatory cream and oneâs (ahem) nether regions (all in one whacky conversation that I swear didnât begin related at all) with me at three in the morning on Facebook but all of you? I treasure our conversations. I hold your thoughts and continued support in the highest regard. Thank you for always being so willing to laugh (and sometimes cry) with me!
One
âHe looks really good, considering.â Emmaline Amos sniffed, pushing her way past an enormous bouquet of white lilies standing by Landon Wellsâs casket at Tate and Sonâs Home Of Eternal Rest.
She pulled Dixie Davis with her, away from Landonâs casket and into the privacy of a connecting mourning room where she set Dixie on a couch surrounded by pictures of Landon.
The scent of dark wood paneling, vanilla candles, and Old Spice invaded Dixieâs nose, making her âugly cryâ hangover pulse in her temples with the force of a sledgehammer.
Dixie lifted her sunglasses, thwarting another ambush of tears, so grateful for the opportunity to have had a few moments alone with Landon without the intrusion of the long line of people whoâd shown up to pay their last respects.
She muttered up at Em, âWhy does everyone always say that, Em? Landonâs dead. Thereâs nothing good-looking about it. I always thought that was a crude thing to say.â
Em huffed, brushing the brim of her black sun hat, and sat down beside her. She gave her a nudge to make some room. âItâs not crude. I was complimentinâ him. New adjective, please,â she drawled, her Southern lilt like macaroni and cheese to Dixieâs homesick ears. Comfort food for the soul.
âCrass?â
âCrass is harsh, Dixie.â
Landon Wells, her best friend ever, was dead. That was harsh.
Harsher still, Landonâs other best friend, Caine Donovan, was just outside that door.
Donât forget heâs your ex-fiancé, too.
Right. Dixie started to regret her terse words with Emmaline. She couldnât afford to alienate the one and only, albeit totally reluctant, ally she had left in her small hometown of Plum Orchard, Georgia.
Maybe what was making her so snappish was exhaustion after the long drive from Chicago. Or the anxiety of returning to said small hometown where everyone knew her name and mostly wanted to throw darts at her picture.
Maybe it was the precariousness of her life in financial semiruin that made her voice what sheâd been thinking for almost two hours as mourner after mourner repeated Emâs words while sheâd waited for her private viewing of Landonâs body.
Or maybe it was the likelihood that a good portion of the female population of Plum Orchard High, class of 1996, were just outside this very funeral home with metaphoric stakes soaked in the townâs specialty, homemade plum wine, just waiting for Reverend Watson to perform her public exorcism. Then they could seal the deal by driving their angry pieces of wood right through her despicable heart.