LITMIR.BIZ

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Center for eight years now. A volunteer at the local library for six. She baked cookies for the ladies auxiliary once a month and chaired an annual fundraising committee for the local food bank. She did her best to steer clear of her sisters and surround herself with people she could count on—the old folks at the senior center and the few people around town who didn’t hold her past against her. Since Robin spent most of her time on the road and Lucy only showed up when she wanted money, keeping her distance was relatively easy. Even more, Miranda only dated the kind of men that a woman could count on—nice, conservative, professional types who didn’t know the first thing about roping a cow or riding a horse or getting down and dirty in a hayloft.

      She’d finally found stability, but she was still missing one thing.

      Acceptance.

      It was close. Her boyfriend of three months had finally proposed to her via e-mail before he’d left yesterday for a seminar in Houston.

      It hadn’t been the most exciting proposal, but then Greg wasn’t the most exciting guy. He wore khakis and white button-down shirts and, as owner of a local dry cleaning chain, spent his days neck-deep in spot cleaner and starch. He was practical. Nice. Safe.

      He was also well-respected. His father had been the mayor once-upon-a-time and Greg himself served as president of the local chamber of commerce.

      When Greg walked into the Piggly Wiggly, the female clerks didn’t stare daggers at him and the stock boys didn’t leer. When he waved at old Mr. Witherspoon, the man actually nodded instead of spitting a stream of tobacco juice at his shoe.

      Miranda wanted the same acceptance. Or, at the very least, civility. Marrying Greg would give her that.

       So why haven’t you given him an answer yet?

      Because. It was a big step. One she didn’t feel comfortable taking via the Internet. She wanted to tell him in person. She would tell him. He was a good man from a good family and she was definitely marrying him. Even if he wasn’t that great in bed.

      Sex wasn’t everything.

      She knew that.

      At the same time, she couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to have an orgasm with an actual man rather than a battery-operated body part.

      Buck was the heavy-duty vibrator she’d purchased for her twenty-first birthday. Instead of hitting the local honky tonk to celebrate—Lucy’s idea—she’d opted to stay home with a frozen pizza and a Bonanza marathon. A few episodes featuring Little Joe and she’d had her first case of horny.

      Not that she’d inherited her mother’s crippling weakness for cowboys.

      There was a big difference between an addiction and mild infatuation. Infatuation brought on by an extreme case of denial. She’d developed a No Cowboy policy early on and so it only made sense that she’d started fantasizing about the one thing she could never have. A tall, dark man in a Stetson. Touching her. Kissing her. Giving her a delicious, toe-curling orgasm. She’d wondered every now and then what it would feel like, a curiosity that had killed any and all chances of having a bonafide O with any of the men she’d dated. Three to be exact, including Greg.

      They hadn’t been wild enough, or exciting enough, or cowboy enough.

      No big deal. Miranda had wanted more than an orgasm. She’d wanted respect, and so she’d settled for Buck and her Bonanza DVDs.

      Until last night.

      The proposal had served as a wake-up call. A reminder that time was precious and it was slipping away fast. In two weeks, she would accept Greg’s offer and then they were getting married.

      From this day forward.

      ‘Til death do us part.

      It was now or never.

      Which was why she’d abandoned her party planning for the annual Sock-Hop scheduled next week at the Senior Center, to pull out her hot pink boots—a high school graduation present from her oldest sister Robin—and make the long drive to Austin. For this one night, she was going to lose her inhibitions and be Restroom Randy.

       Cowboy up!

      Her gaze zeroed in on the jeans-clad legs striding toward her. Her attention took a slow walk up, over muscular thighs and an impressive crotch, a trim waist and solid torso, broad shoulders and a corded neck, to his face.

      Several days’ growth of stubble shadowed his jaw and circled his sensuous mouth. A thin scar zig-zagged its way across one cheek, but it didn’t detract from his looks. If anything, it made him seem more rugged and sexy. Dark hair framed his face and brushed the collar of his shirt. Striking silver eyes fringed in thick black lashes peered at her from beneath the brim of his Stetson.

      There was nothing respectable about the molten gleam in his gaze. Heat radiated off his body, pushing and pulling at her, luring her closer when every warning bell in her body clamored for her to turn and run. His lips crooked in the faintest grin that said he knew all of her secrets and he wanted her in spite of them.

      Because of them.

      Her nipples tightened and her legs quivered and she felt the wetness between her thighs.

      He stopped a few inches away. His gaze stripped her bare and a ripple of awareness went up her spine. She’d felt naked back at home when she’d slipped on the skimpy clothes, but it was nothing compared to what she felt now.

      Naked. Vulnerable. Hungry.

      The last thought struck and a bolt of heat sizzled through her. The chemistry was more potent than anything she’d ever felt, but there was something more, as well. A strange connection that said the attraction went much deeper than the physical.

      She stiffened against the ridiculous notion and ignored the endless questions swimming in her head.

       What’s your name?

       What do you do?

       Where are you from?

       Are you the real deal?

      He was. He wore an air of danger and wildness as comfortably as he wore his form-fitting jeans.

      “You can always tell by the boots,” her mother had said time and time again.

      Her gaze dropped to the worn toes of a pair of black snakeskin Ropers. Scuffed. Dusty. Lived in. An electrical pulse vibrated along her nerve endings.

      “I won them at the Houston Livestock Show and Rodeo.”

      Her gaze swiveled back up and collided with his. “Excuse me?”

      “The boots. I took first place last year in Houston. They were part of the prize. The name’s Cody Braddock. I’m a bull rider.”

      He was a bona fide cowboy, all right.

      The last man she would ever take to the Senior Sock Hop. Or the weekly church picnic. Or the Veterans of Foreign Wars Bunko night. Or the Chamber of Commerce Christmas party. Or anything in the tiny town of Skull Creek where she’d spent the past ten years trying to outrun her Restroom Randy reputation.

      Which made him the perfect man to take to bed right now.

      “Why don’t we get out of here?” she blurted before she did something really stupid. Like ask him which bull he’d been riding and how long he’d been risking his neck and where he’d been all her life.

      One orgasm, she reminded herself. Then the damned curiosity that kept her tossing and turning and fantasizing at night—every night—would be satisfied. She would say yes to Greg and abandon her legacy for good.

      “That is, if you’re not married,” she added. “You aren’t married, are you?”

      “No.”

      “You’re sure?”

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