Three weeks ago, Trent and I were deep into the Honeymoon stage of love, I swore I wouldn’t be the first one to rock the boat—Lord knows with our two Irish tempers it would happen soon enough—so when he made me promise to keep my nose and our grandmothers out of his investigation I did.
It didn’t hurt that his head was buried between my legs at the time either. But then Daisy called me begging for help and what kind of bestie would I be if I shut the door in her face? That’s right, a sh*tty one. So I packed up our grandmothers and their gogo boots, g-strings and pasties to get to the bottom of things. Only problem is if Trent catches us I’ll be dead meat, folks.
My name is Shelby Whitmore, Funeral and Obituaries columnist for the San Diego Metro News and most likely to be single again if I survive this sh*t. But hey, at least I’m still a hit with the blue hairs . . .