He stared at the woman he’d know for as long as he could remember. “What are you doing in there?”
“I’m leaving town with Myron.”
Paris had never had much of a sense of humor, but she had to be pulling his leg. Myron shoved his license at him, and Dylan took it. He’d seen the same picture of the man when he’d searched the NCIC.
“Myron’s going to teach me to wrestle. My wrestling name will be Sweet Thing,” she gushed.
Dylan glanced up from the license. “Now I know you’re kidding.”
Her pursed lips got all puffed up. “Is it really that hard for you to believe that a man could want me?”
He felt as if he’d been transported into the twilight zone. Or one of Hope’s stories. This could not be happening. “I didn’t say that, Paris.”
“Myron appreciates me. We’re in love and going to get married as soon as we get to Vegas.”
She sounded serious, but really, how serious could she be? “That might be a while. Your fiancé here has violated a restraining order.”
“But I’m leaving the country for good.” Myron spoke for the first time. “I don’t ever want to lay my eyes on Hope Spencer again. That broad ruined my life. Until I met Paris, I had no direction. I’m a new man now.”
“Sure you are.” Dylan studied the woman who looked like Paris but sure as hell wasn’t acting like her. “Do you realize you’re involved with a stalker?”
“He’s not a stalker.” She smiled at her fiancé and reached for his hand. She looked all soft. Like a woman in love. “He’s just persistent.”
“Well, his persistence is going to land him in jail.”
Paris’s bushy brows lowered over her narrowed eyes, and Dylan was exposed to a whole new side of the easy-tempered girl he’d known since first grade. “Don’t you dare ruin this for me, Dylan Taber. I’ve waited all of my life for someone like Myron. Someone who could love me. God knows I wasted enough time waiting for you.”
“Me?” Dylan took a step back.
“Do you think I baked all those cakes and pies for you for the heck of it? Didn’t you ever notice that you were the only man in town I baked for?” She laughed, but it came out sounding very bitter. “I bet you didn’t notice. Especially ever since Hope Spencer drove into town. You’re obsessed with her. Her with her blond hair and skinny behind.”
“Now, Paris,” he began, but stopped because he didn’t know what to say. He’d always thought she baked because it was her hobby, and he wasn’t altogether certain she was wrong about Hope. “Do your parents know about this?”
“I plan to call them from Vegas.”
“I’ll tell you what,” Myron interjected. “If you give me back my license, I’ll get the hell out of this state.”
As much as Dylan hated the thought of letting Myron off the hook, he listened while the man talked.
“As far as I’m concerned, Hope Spencer and I are square,” Myron continued. “She ruined my life, but if it weren’t for her, I never would have met Paris. By this time next week, I’ll be in Mexico starting a new life with her, and you won’t ever see me again.”
The alternative was hauling him back into town, booking him into custody, another court date and hearing that Hope had said she didn’t want. Dylan handed back the license. “You better make sure I don’t see you. And you better not even think about bothering Ms. Spencer.” He looked at Paris. “Are you sure about this?”
“Oh, yes.” She went back to gushing, and her face softened once more as she looked at Myron. “I’ve never been more happy in my life. I finally have a chance for a life outside of my parent’s diner, and for a family of my own.”
Dylan thought he’d probably heard crazier, but he couldn’t remember it if he had.
Paris reached for her big purse and set it on her lap. “I was going to mail this to you,” she said and removed a stack of sealed envelopes and handed him one. “But since you’re here…”
He took it and stepped back. “Good luck, Paris.”
“She doesn’t need luck as long as she’s got me,” Myron said as he shoved his Winnebago into gear and pulled out onto the highway.
Dylan stood on the side of the road until he completely lost sight of the vehicle. Damn, what a crazy morning. He walked back to the Blazer and climbed inside. Paris Fernwood marrying Myron Lambardo, a.k.a., Myron the Masher, a.k.a., Micky the Magical Leprechaun, and becoming a wrestler herself. He just couldn’t picture her wrestling anyone.
He turned off the grille lights and opened the envelope Paris had addressed to him. He expected a membership to the dessert of the month club. Instead, it was a rambling, mushy note about how much she loved Myron Lambardo. Christ, all the i’s had little hearts above them instead of dots. At the end, she included a quick “by the way…”
I never meant to hurt you or Adam. And I wish I could say I was sorry for placing a few calls to the tabloids, but how can I be sorry when that is what brought my true love to me.