His Kind of Perfect

Chapter 1

If Anabelle Broussard heard, ‘Bless her heart’ directed at her once more, she was going to hurt someone. After two years, you'd think the good folks of Sugar Bay would find another poor soul to pity.

But she wasn’t that lucky.

And today wasn't a good day for people to be blessing her heart unless they had a yearning to be six feet under. Jail may be a welcome respite from all this wedding talk. Maybe the judge would set a precedent for leniency on account of the defendant being the recipient of too many blessings that resulted in temporary insanity.

Then again, being locked in a cell meant too many hours to reflect upon the pitiful existence of her life. An image of being stuck in jail, a veritable spinster according to her elderly aunt, while her young cousin walked down the aisle in a picturesque beach wedding burned in her mind. Heaven help her because that would mean more, ‘Bless her hearts’.

Great.

Anabelle caught sight of two pillars of society, the former Girl Scout troop leader and the pianist at Holy Family, barrel towards her in their souped up electric scooter. Fearing another session of rehashing all that was wrong in Anabelle’s life, she muttered, “I’m late for an appointment,” and ducked into the nearest store for sanctuary rather than commit murder.

As the door snapped shut behind her and she closed her eyes in sweet relief, she heard a faint but clear, ‘Bless her heart’.

Anabelle groaned and banged her head against the door. It was unfortunate the momentum wasn’t enough to cause temporary brain damage or at the least, oblivion from the day’s events. The sound of throat clearing stilled her.

Her haven was someone’s business but as focused as she’d been on escape, she’d forgotten.

"Anabelle."

Fudge.

The day kept getting better and better because that voice, that deep, warm, and oh-so-sexy voice that more often than not, wrapped her in a tidal wave of lust belonged to none other than Derek Wheaton.

Double fudge.

"I wasn't expecting you today."

She hadn't expected to see him either but God had a funny sense of humor. With eyes still closed, she debated the choice of facing the geriatric set on the other side of the door or expiring from unrequited lust in here.

Anabelle sighed. She knew another "Bless your heart" would make her crazy. Today's outfit, a black and white A-line dress with a deep neckline was more casual than she preferred in his presence, but sanctuary was sanctuary.

She took a deep breath, tucked her mahogany colored hair behind her ear and opened her eyes. "Hello Derek,” she said. She hoped her smile was more natural than it felt but she was glad she’d taken a moment to compose herself.

She took in the beauty that was all Derek Wheaton.

Holy smokes.

Derek stood a few inches over six feet with wide shoulders courtesy of the military, close-cropped brown hair and dark brown eyes. Those eyes were her Achilles heels since they reminded her of dark chocolate, her weakness. Sometimes she feared she’d get sucked into a vortex of naughtiness his wicked grin hinted at if she stared at them for too long. Since they’d met, his gaze seemed to beckon her to misbehave.

Unlike many men of her experience, Derek didn’t use hair products and she doubted a manicurist had ever touched his cuticles. He was a man’s man and although his face wasn’t classically perfect, his eyes were a little too close together, and maybe his nose was a little bit crooked, the combination proved to be completely drool worthy.