by Amie Stuart
I can't say I'm one of those writers who always KNEW they wanted to be a writer. Nor could I say I've been doing it all my life, though I did find some old notes I wrote my mom eons ago-I think I was five. My how time flies.
Growing up, I wanted to be a lawyer and a psychologist-obviously I've seen the light, though to be honest, I've never settled down into any career until I started writing. I've worked fast food, as a receptionist, an office manager (in a daycare that gets me bonus points), delivered pizza, did a stint at Wally World as a cashier, and was a hairdresser for five years (oh the stories I could tell). And that's just the stuff I got paid to do! These days I file stuff, answer phones and tweak websites to put food on the table—this is important when you have a kid in college—and write in my spare time.
I figure it was all training for the writing gig. That and all those Barbara Cartland romances I cut my teeth on.
I don't drink beer (why would I when God gave us Vodka?) and I don't like football, but don't tell the Powers that Be or they might revoke my Texas Citizenship. And I say y'all but never y'all all, cause that's just wrong.
Last but not least, I'm a storyteller and a writer, and I'm here to entertain you.
Other Books in the Bluebonnet, Texas Series:
The Cowgirl Rides Away: Zack and Jessa
Once in a Blue Moon: Ty and Betti
COMING OCTOBER 2015
The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie: Rowdy Yates and Jade Ballard
COMING JANUARY 2016
Even Cowboys Get the Blues: Tim Caldwell and Toni duBois
Other books by Amie Stuart
Nailed,
Hittin It (Coming July 2015),
Ropers Rule
...and more!
Amie Stuart ... around the web
My website | Wattpad | Goodreads | Facebook | Twitter | Newsletter
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Scroll down for a peek at The Big Girl’s Guide to Buying Lingerie – Coming October 2015
1. ALL BRAS ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL
I watched with fleeting patience as the woman in front of me slowly unloaded her basket. Hurry up lady. I’m gonna be late.
I’d miss him. It was Saturday. We always met early on Saturday. Damnit, why did I stop at Target to begin with?
I, Jade Ballard, am firmly convinced there’s a huge, and yes, obvious, conspiracy on the part of retailers everywhere to drain our wallets at every opportunity. Why else would they add groceries to tempt us with? I can never stick to just the things on my list. The only place worse is Wal-Mart, where I buy at least two of everything, drag it home and then have no place to store it.
Finally!
She moved up enough that I could unload my booty onto the conveyor belt. Bra, panties, more panties, maxi pads, tampons, toilet tissue with aloe, milk chocolate Milanos, pretzels, face wash, a twelve pack of diet Dr Pepper and “Independence Day”—collector’s edition. Will Smith was a total hottie.
And one last bra. A stuck bra. I tugged and wiggled but couldn’t free the tiny hanger that was jammed between the basket slats, and the checkout lane was so narrow I couldn’t maneuver my wide hips to the side for better leverage.
Above me, I heard a voice say, “Here,” as a large, tanned hand reached down. “Let me help.”
I glanced up at the sound of that familiar voice, then caught my lower lip, and a few unkind words, between my teeth. Rowdy Yates twice in one week was more than I could handle. It wasn’t his rugged good looks—even good looking men eventually got wrinkles. It wasn’t his big blue eyes, complete with long lashes, and sun bleached blonde hair—despite my weakness for blondes. It wasn’t the fact that he was tall enough and solidly built enough to make even me feel small. Honestly, I’m not certain what it was about Rowdy Yates that left me flustered and annoyed. But no matter how much I gave him the cold shoulder, he continued to try and charm me—and every other woman that crossed his path. Redneck Casanova. I’d decided he either took way too much pleasure in trying to fluster me or he was truly dense.
I opted for A.
Bad enough I’d seen him Wednesday at the Bluebonnet Dancehall; surely he could have found a Target closer to home, or better yet, a Wal-Mart.
I’m cursed.
I blew a lock of dark hair out of my eyes, which reminded me of just how bad I looked. No makeup, scarf covering my shaggy short hair, an old “Property of Drew Hartford” t-shirt and cut-off, homemade capris. A pair of skuzzy flip-flops completed my ensemble from hell. Normally, greeting the world dressed one step above “just rolled out of bed” gave me a perverse thrill. After all, that’s what days off were for. But the thought of God’s Gift to Bluebonnet, Texas, seeing me at my very worst was enough to make me shop in New Braunfels, forty minutes away.
“I got it, thanks.” I leaned into the basket again and continued to tug, unsuccessfully, while swearing under my breath.
He reached past me again and easily untangled the hanger, which had been stuck in the thick, red, plastic basket slats.
Holding out my bra, my 40DD bra, he smiled at me, all innocent-like. “Who’s the lucky guy?”
The wholly and completely unreasonable urge to smack him almost got the better of me, and I clenched my jaw. It was just a blue bra, for heaven’s sake, and my guy was none of Rowdy Yates’s business.
Just then I heard a voice ring out over the intercom, “Lingerie, price check at register six.”
I was at register six. Turning, I found the cashier holding up my panties, my brand new, size 2X, blue paisley, high-cut briefs. My cheeks warm, I glanced back at Rowdy, praying he wasn’t looking.
He was, and still held the matching bra, to boot, that innocent smile still visible beneath his moustache. I could see the laughter in those damn cornflower colored eyes. It wasn’t fair.
If anything, my cheeks grew hotter as I snatched my bra from his outstretched hand and threw it on the belt. Knowing my luck, it’d get jammed.
“You know, you could’a said thank you, Sugar,” he drawled.
“Thanks,” I shot over my shoulder. Behind me I heard him chuckle. Jerk! I hated being called sugar. The only man who got away with that was Robbie. Speaking of which...I grabbed the second set of panties off the belt and held them out to the sales clerk. “These are the same price.”
“Someone’s on their way. I have to have the exact number for inventory purposes.”
So much for express. To make matters worse, she turned around and held up my panties again, shouting to a woman not more than six feet away, “Yeah, Norma, I need a price on these 2X, high-cut briefs. The two pack.”
If they hadn’t matched the bra, I’da said forget about it. Now everyone on the northwestern side of San Antonio knew what size panties I wore. I slipped my sunglasses down onto my nose and glanced at my watch, trying to melt into the floor.
2:00. I had one hour to get home, unload and...
“You shop here often, Sugar?”
Rowdy. I sighed, but before I could answer, the damned cashier piped up, throwing in her two cents, “She’s a regular. She was in here Wednesday. Almost bought these panties then, but she was late for some meeting.”
Triple shit. Just my luck I get the one freaking cashier with a photographic memory. Worse yet, the meeting I was late to had been with Rowdy’s boss. By the time I reached the Bluebonnet Dancehall, she’d taken off for another appointment, leaving Rowdy to place their liquor order. I’d glibly lied, and told him I’d been delayed at an emergency dental appointment.
I was so busted and by him of all people.
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