Bad Boys Southern Style

Janie Mills had done a lot of things in her life, not all of which she was proud of, but killing a guy…

Yeah, that was a new one, even for her.

She stood holding the murder weapon in the darkened library where she worked, listening to the sizzling summer storm rage outside, her breath hitching, trying to talk herself out of a panic attack.

Not so easy to do with her heart in her throat, blocking the air passage.

Lightning burst, and for one brief instant, her world lit up in the blue flash, followed by a CRACK of thunder that nearly had her jumping right out of her skin.

Just breathe, she told herself, digging her damp palms into the Concise Oxford English dictionary she held. The thing weighed a bazillion pounds, and had swung with ease‹

Right against Clayton’s head, killing him.

Or so she assumed given the terribly still way he lay at her feet.

Just breathe…

But no calming technique was going to help her at the moment, not a single one.

Someone was breathing ridiculously hard. Oh, wait. That was her. Great, now she was hyperventilating. And sweating.

Damn it.

She dropped the dictionary to the floor. It hit with a heavy thunk that echoed into the darkness, reminding her of how it¹d sounded against Clayton’s skull.

Oh, God. She doubted she’d ever be able to forget the sound of his brain cells clacking together, or forget the sickening thud he’d made as he’d hit the floor like a wrecking ball unchecked.

Good job, Janie. Now she could add murder to the long list of things she shouldn’t have done in her lifetime.

Sorry, mom . . .

If only she’d closed the library on time. If only she hadn’t let Clayton Wyatt, town banker, all-around hottie and first-class heel inside when he’d asked. If only the wicked storm hadn’t wiped out the electricity.

If only, if only, if only . . . she had a bunch of those, didn’t she.

It was called karma, coming around to bite her on the ass. But she’d mistakenly assumed that by changing her name, her livelihood, and moving 2,000 miles across the country to the small Southern town of Grace, Georgia, things would have to improve.

Ding, ding, ding – wrong.