Tangled Thing Called Love by Juliet Rosetti

said, which was a fib; she wasn’t at all sorry. “But I don’t have the time. I’m taking care of my brother’s kids while their mom’s in the hospital.”
    Bodelle waved away Mazie’s objections. “I’m sure you and your family can work something out. It’s for a good cause, after all. The funds we raise will go to the Carnahan family—the ones who lost their home? You want to do your part to help, don’t you?”
    “Of course, but—”
    “Let me just explain how the winner will be chosen, Mazie—this is so cute.”
    Mazie tried to envision cute scenarios. Nude pudding wrestling? A live centipede-eatingcontest? A yodel-off?
    “Fifty percent of a contestant’s score will come from points acquired, and fifty percent will come from fund-raising. Each contestant will get her own personal queenometer—”
    “Her own personal what?”
    “Queenometer. Like a thermometer, only it measures dollars. Each dollar the contestant raises will move her mercury up a notch. Yours is already up in the hardware store window.”
    Bodelle Blumquist had scared Mazie when she’d been a teenager. She still did, Mazie admitted to herself, but in the twelve years that had passed since then, Mazie had dealt with even scarier people. She was not going to be bullied by this two-bit tyrant.
    “Then you’ll have to take my queenometer down.” Mazie stared straight into Bodelle’s eyes to emphasize her point. “Because there’s no way on earth I’m going to be in your pageant.”
    Shouldering her purse, Mazie wheeled around and marched toward the door, head held high. Which proved to be a mistake, because she failed to see the bar stool that had inexplicably materialized in her path and which, when she stumbled into it, entirely ruined the dignified, dramatic exit she’d intended.

Chapter Eight
    “You’re not planning on riding that bike, are you?” asked Johnny Hoolihan, who’d followed Mazie out of the bar and was now watching as she unlocked Emily’s bike from a utility pole.
    “Yes. I am.”
    Mazie nudged up the kickstand and straddled the bike. On second thought, she decided, it might be better if she walked the bike. Riding a bike required a certain degree of balance and coordination, and at the moment Mazie felt her coordination was just a smidge impaired.
    “How about if I give you a ride?” Johnny asked as she got off the bike and began to wheel it along the sidewalk.
    “No thanks.”
    Johnny walked by her side, hands in his pockets, regarding her with amusement. “Mazie, I’m not the hoodlum you once knew. Your virtue is safe with me. You shouldn’t be biking when you’re a little—”
    “A little what? I’m not tipsy.”
    “Didn’t say that, did I? C’mon. I’m parked right here.”
    He took the bike out of her hands and chivied her over to a large old silver Cadillac. “It belonged to a drug dealer.” Johnny raised the trunk and lifted the bike inside. “Not my drug dealer. I bought it at a sheriff’s auction. I have a thing for classic cars.”
    He held open the front door and Mazie flopped into the seat, feeling boneless and woozy and really quite grateful for the offer of a ride. Johnny got in, started the car, and eased out onto Main Street. As they passed the hardware store, Johnny pointed to the window. “Look—there’s your queenometer.”
    Mazie craned her neck. The hardware store window featured an enlarged photo of her, taken twelve years ago when she’d been Miss Quail Hollow. Next to it was a four-foot-tall plywood cutout of an old-fashioned thermometer, with a large round bulb and a gauge thrusting perpendicularly from the base. Was it just her nasty mind, Maziewondered, or did this thing bear an unfortunate resemblance to an erect male member?
    “Oh my God,” Mazie moaned, covering her eyes.
    Johnny chuckled. “My reaction exactly.”
    Mazie started to laugh, too. “I can’t believe Bodelle didn’t catch the phallic overtones.”
    “You shouldn’t have turned down