Lavender's Blue by Jennifer Crusie and Bob Mayer PRE ORDER now live

Liz Danger: One

ONE

I like to think of myself as fearless and adult, but I lose that every time I get near my hometown. So, I was on Route 52 parallel to the Ohio River, a six-foot red plush bear riding shotgun in my ancient Camry, when the Welcome to Burney sign loomed up in front of me, and all my history there loomed, too, and I flat-out panicked. All Burney meant to me was scorn and disapproval and the knowledge I'd disgraced the family again, that worthless Lizzie Danger, so at the last minute, I floored the Camry past the turn-off to the street to my mother's house, running like the coward I was. The old car was hurtling along like a champ when I heard the siren. I looked in the rear-view mirror, saw a cop on my tail, said, "Oh, hell, no," and pulled over onto the muddy edge of the two-lane highway.

My palms were clammy which was ridiculous: I was not eighteen anymore. I was perfectly fine. I took a deep breath, shoved back the bear in the passenger seat so I could open the glove compartment, and prayed that whoever was about to bust me didn't know me. I'd been gone for fifteen years. It was possible. I popped open the compartment, and a bunch of papers slithered out before I could catch them. I unbuckled my seat belt and leaned over the bear's leg to sort through the mess on the floor, and tThen somebody knocked on my window.

At first all I could see was a nice broad expanse of uniformed chest over a trim waist. Then I shut off the stereo—Terri Clark singing 'Bigger Windows,' so appropriate—rolled down the window letting in the cool April air, looked up, and thought, Thank you, God. The cop wasn't anybody I knew, which meant I wouldn't get any 'Well, here's trouble back in town' crap. He had brown hair that looked like he'd cut it himself, non-twinkling brown eyes, and a nose that had been broken at least once.

I smiled up at him, cheerful and innocent as all hell.

He didn't smile back, but he didn't look particularly upset, either. And when he said, "Ma'am, do you realize you were going seventy-five in a fifty-mile-an-hour zone?" he sounded more bored than anything else. Well, he was doing highway traffic in Burney on a cloudy April afternoon.

"Yes, officer," I said, holding onto that smile. "I wasn't thinking. I apologize and I certainly won't do it again." Because I am sure as hell never coming back here again.

He held out his hand. "License and registration, please."

I got my license and insurance card out of my billfold and handed them to him, and said, "I'll be just a second with that registration." I shoved the bear back again, stuck my head between its legs and into the space under the dashboard, and sifted through a couple of dozen old repair bills, insurance cards, and expired registrations as fast as I could before I found the current one. When I straightened up again, he had bent down to look through the window.

"Nice bear," he said, still with no expression at all.

"Thank you." I handed him the registration.

He looked at it and then at the license. "Your name is Elizabeth M. Danger?"

"Yes, sir." Please don't ask what the "M" is for.

"Any relation to MaryBeth Danger?"

Oh, hell. "She's my mother." Please don't tell her I'm here.

He nodded. "I'll be right back."

He walked around my old car, probably looking for code violations, and then back to his cruiser, and I rolled up the window and watched him in my rear-view mirror to see if he was going to call my license in. He had a nice ass, but that was peripheral to the fact that of course he was going to call it in. It didn't matter because I was going to take the ticket, mail in the fine, and never come back again, so really, anything that happened next was immaterial and irrelevant and nothing at all to worry about. Unless my mother heard I was there and came looking for me. Or God forbid, my Aunt ML.