Size Matters (Handcuffs and Happily Ever Afters) by Robyn Peterman

address Phyllis as Moon-Unit, so Phyllis won’t answer her when she speaks.”
    “Sunday family brunch must be awesome,” I deadpanned, grabbing her pillow and trying to wipe Mitch from my brain.
    “Hell yes . . . So, little missy, I heard you met Jack’s supersexy partner earlier,” she teased, raising her eyebrows.
    Crap, had she been hiding at the library? Did she know I’d kissed him? “What are you talking about?” I croaked, fully ready to take my punishment.
    “Well,” Rena gushed, “I hear sparks flew and then you informed him you had eight husbands and played in a classical-country-techno-pop band.”
    “I never said how many husbands and it was a folk-rock-thrash-punk band. Jack clearly has a memory problem or brain damage.” I breathed a huge sigh of relief when I realized she knew nothing about the library.
    “Did you think Mitch was hot?” she asked, gathering up the dirty laundry that covered her floor.
    “He’s okay,” I said, tossing her a bra and sweats that I found under her pillow.
    “Hmm, he certainly had a higher opinion of you than you do of him.” She gave me the look . . . and waited.
    “What?” I yelled.
    Rena cackled and continued to clean her room. “He said you were hot, crazy hot.”
    “ Crazy being the operative word,” I moaned, putting her pillow over my head.
    “Nah,” she assured me. “He told Jack he couldn’t say much because everything about you took his breath away.”
    “He didn’t say that,” I gasped, sitting up on her bed and throwing the pillow at her.
    “Did.”
    “Not.”
    “I swear he did.” She lobbed her pillow back at me. “Jack said so.”
    “Yeah, Jack also said I had eight husbands and a country-techno band.” I rolled my eyes and flopped back on her bed. My tummy was tingling and it was all I could do to keep my voice normal. There was no way I could let on how I felt. If I did, Rena might drop the bet so I could be happy. And the bet was the main thing holding me back. My fear and disdain of dating cops seemed to disappear every time I laid eyes on Mitch. Sad thing was, Nathan/Ethan wasn’t my first law enforcement romance failure . . . There was David, the beat cop who was more into his own reflection than me, and Tommy, the dispatcher, who was such a momma’s boy all our dates were threesomes (and not the kind you read about in erotic romance novels). How many times did I have to date a cop before I learned my lesson? The bet was still on and it was going to stay that way.
    “Jack didn’t say eight husbands or country whatever-the-fuck band,” she grinned. “I did, just to screw with you. The Mitch stuff is true.”
    “Doesn’t matter,” I quipped casually. “I’m not interested. I don’t date cops anymore. I don’t want to dine with Mrs. C and Edith. Ever. And I’m looking forward to owning cardboard Brett Favre.”
    Rena considered me for a long moment. “Okay,” she said cryptically. “Have it your way.”
    “I will,” I shot back.
    She scooped up the laundry basket and started out of her bedroom. “You know, Kristy, it’s really going to be fun hearing about all the wonderful meals you’ll be sharing with Edith and Mrs. C.”
    She was out of the room before I could nail her with anything. I lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Motherhumpin’ assclowns, the psycho part of me hoped she was right.

Chapter 7
    “I t’s going to be fine, and the damage wasn’t too bad,” Louise said, emerging from under a pile of donated clothes. “Hell, Mariah causes more destruction than this on her own—even without teenage hooligans ransacking the place.”
    “I know,” I agreed. “I’m just glad she’s okay, and I’m glad there were no weapons.”
    “Her knee and her fists seem to be fairly lethal,” Louise chuckled.
    “I wasn’t talking about Mariah.”
    “I know,” she sighed. “This just stinks. We lost the lobby computer, a couple of tables and chairs. Oh, and Mariah destroyed the TV two weeks