The Big Girl's Guide to Buying Lingerie: A Cowboy Love Story (Bluebonnet, Texas Book 4)

by Amie Stuart

  ShyCowboy: I suppose, if I’m bad, you have to punish me—My cheeks heated up—But the question is how?

  He’d completed the sentence with a little leering smiley face.

  Skyebaby: I could take away your favorite toy.

  ShyCowboy: Now that is mean. You’d be punishing both of us.

  Skyebaby: Why so?

  ShyCowboy: Cuz you’re my favorite toy, Skyebaby.

  Now you know why I’m in love with him. I fanned myself, squirming in the chair. But no amount of squirming would relieve the ache he’d started, and sometimes he could be really bad with the teasing.

  Sure, we talked about sex. We talked about damn near everything else. Chalk it up to the whole ‘anonymous’ thing. Though I had to wonder if we’d still be able to talk as openly if we met. He’d even told me his biggest fantasy once. The thought of sex on the back of a horse had left me cringing and excited all at the same time. I’d reciprocated and told him mine, stuff I’d never even shared with my ex-fiancé.

  Skyebaby: What do you think I am? The Energizer Bunny?

  ShyCowboy: You’re better than any ole bunny, darlin’

  Oh God. I swallowed hard, unable to think of a snappy comeback.

  ShyCowboy: Sooooooooo

  Skyebaby: Yes, Dearest?

  ShyCowboy: You have a birthday coming up…

  Aw, shit, he remembered. I fished out another cookie and nibbled at it, a part of me dreading what was to come.

  Skyebaby: Yup

  ShyCowboy: Got plans?

  It wasn’t every day a girl turned thirty, and damn if he didn’t know how to push my buttons. Think, girl, think!

  Skyebaby: I’m probably going home. I haven’t seen the familia in a while and Dad's been bugging me to come up to Austin.

  ShyCowboy: Too bad. I was really hoping I could take you out. My brother-in-law told me about a great little blues place down on the Riverwalk.

  Curling my fists in my lap, I fought against the incredibly strong physical urge to type “yes.” I adored my daddy, but the thought of spending my birthday—The Big 3-0—with my uber-successful family made me want to scream. Mommy and Daddy Perfect and Mr. and Miss Perfect—and me. The Pork Rind. That’s what my brother, Tricky Nicky called me. Nicky wasn’t really perfect but, as the only boy and heir apparent, he was the golden child by default.

  Worse, I knew damn good and well Mom would insist on the country club. Blarh!

  Or, I could spend my birthday in some smoky dive on the Riverwalk, slow dancing to the blues with my hottie cowboy. I slumped in my chair and debated how to answer.

  ShyCowboy: Skye, you there?

  Skyebaby: Yeah, I’m here. I wish there was some way I could get out of going, but Dad’s really been on me and I hate to disappoint him.

  I was not a liar. He had been dropping broad hints about me coming home. Apparently, an hour and a half wasn’t quite far enough away.

  ShyCowboy: Any idea when you’ll leave?

  Skyebaby: Probably Thursday when I get off work

  ShyCowboy: So, what about Wednesday night?

  Oh Gawd! I wracked my brains, but for the life of me, couldn’t find a reason to say no. Not one he might buy anyway. But I had one very large reason to not say yes.

  Before I could type a reply, anything, tease him or distract him, another message popped up.

  ShyCowboy: If you don’t want to, just say so. I’ll understand. I just thought after six months...

  The last thing I’d wanted was to hurt his feelings. I sighed and swallowed the extra large lump in my throat. A search of the bag of Milanos revealed only two left. Some gremlins must have snuck in while I’d been talking to Robbie because I sure didn’t remember eating them. I should just be honest and tell him I wasn’t ready. With a sigh, I shoved the last cookie in my mouth and began typing my reply, only to be hit with the biggest coughing fit of my life as a piece flew down my windpipe.

  Many minutes and many sips of diet Dr Pepper later I sat up, tears streaming from my eyes and my throat raw. When I refocused on the screen, I screamed.

  Skyebaby: I’d love to

  ShyCowboy: Cool! :-)

  MAKE A WISH

  ROWDY LEANED BACK in his chair, locked his fingers behind his head and let out a satisfied sigh. She’d finally agreed to go out with him. Ten more days and she’d be all his. His little Skyebaby.

  He absolutely loved spunky women and Skye had sugar and spice nailed. She was smart and knew her sports, too. He still chuckled occasionally over the ice hockey argument that had brought them together.

  The last six months had been amazing. He’d never dreamed he’d find someone so down-to-earth, outrageously funny and flirty, feminine and sweet who could totally charm him like she had. Of course, he’d never let a woman get as close as Skye had either. Not that he’d let her; it had just sort of happened. He could only chalk it up to not being face-to-face made talking, really talking, so much easier.

  Bluebonnet was ‘small town’ and ‘ranchers’ and Rowdy’d bet his last buck that at least half the guys he’d graduated from high school with had married someone they’d met in elementary school, someone they’d known their entire lives. That’s how things worked in Bluebonnet, Texas, population 5,684.

  Skye was a sweet addiction, a drug that had slowly ruined him for all others. The fact she wasn’t from Bluebonnet and obviously wanted more out of life than to be Mrs. Someone (Anyone) were both bonuses. Three months ago he’d very quietly given up his Wife-for-a-Night routine; the longest he’d ever willingly been celibate since his high school days, but he’d reached the point where bringing a woman home had left him feeling uncomfortable and weirdly dissatisfied.

  Not that he actually thought that Skye would sleep with him on their first date, but he’d be less than honest if he didn’t admit the thought intrigued him. After all, she was the first woman to not flinch at his horse fantasy.

  With a grin he typed a reply.

  ShyCowboy: I need your phone number, darlin’

  Skyebaby: Why for?

  ShyCowboy: So I can hear your sweet voice at last :-)

  He dug in the desk’s side drawer for a pen and paper while waiting for her phone number to pop up on the screen. Her personality was so vibrant, he’d always wondered what her voice sounded like. Now he’d get a chance to find out. Maybe he’d call before he had to be at the dancehall. Maybe he wouldn’t tell her it was him. Maybe he’d just sit and listen.

  No. That would be mean. She trusted him enough to go out with him and give him her number. It would be wrong to abuse her trust like that.

  Skyebaby: 830-555-6892

  But he could tease her. He scribbled the number down on a sticky note and stuck it on the edge of his oversized monitor where it wouldn’t get lost. The poor thing was beginning to look like a float in a Mardi Gras parade with the color-coded sticky-notes: yellow for business, purple for personal/family and now blue for Skye.

  ShyCowboy: Can I call you right now?

  He watched the clock, waiting on her to answer. Three minutes passed before her reply popped up. Longer even than her agreeing to go out with him.

  Skyebaby: Sure

  Whoever said you couldn’t read someone’s thoughts via computer was damned wrong. Skye always took a long time to answer the tough questions, and she kept her responses to minimal words. If she were feeling chatty or excited about something, she’d go on and on and make tons of typos.

  ShyCowboy: I’m just teasing, baby

  He grabbed the phone sitting on top of a stack of mail. His impulsiveness sent the pile sliding to the floor and uncovered a dust-coated sticky ring.

  Rowdy frowned in irritation. Way past time to do some cleaning. Occasionally his computer business kept him so busy, he had to let his routine slide. He quickly jotted down a note, reminding himself to clean on Monday, and stuck it at the top of the monitor where he wouldn’t forget. Otherwise, he’d sit and tweak the new computer he was building for Rene all day. His niece’s fourt
eenth birthday was still a couple weeks away—right after Skye’s—and he had plenty of time.

  Rowdy dialed and listened to the phone ring. Then smiled at the quaver in her silky voice when she answered.

  “I thought you said you were kidding.”

  “I’m tired of huntin’ and peckin’, darlin’.” Though he wasn’t as bad as Skye probably thought, typing wasn’t his forte.

  She sighed and, for a minute, Rowdy regretted his impulsiveness. He scrambled for a way to put her at ease. He clicked on the smiley face menu in his instant messenger program and picked a goofy looking one, inserted it and clicked send. She giggled. That was better.

  “So.”

  “That’s how all this got started.” Despite the slight scold in her tone, there was something incredibly feminine and soft in her voice. A purr almost.

  He closed his eyes and smiled to himself, lowering his voice to match hers. “Where do you want to go eat on your birthday, Miss Skye?”

  “Anywhere’s fine.”

  “Aw, now,” he said. Women. Sweet, lovely unpredictable women. He was a lot of things but not a fool. Surprising her on a blind date was just asking for trouble.

  “Surprise me.” Just then a beep interrupted them. “Hang on.” She returned a second later, made quick excuses about it being her father and hung up.

  Time was running out but she was still online. He typed quickly before she shut down her IM program.

  ShyCowboy: Email me a list of places. So at least I can surprise you with something you like. Afterwards, it’s Louie’s for slow dancing

  Skyebaby: Will do. Right after I get done with Dad.

  ShyCowboy: Bye darlin’. Dream of me.

  Skyebaby: Always…Have a good night.

  Rowdy signed off, shut down the computer and stood to stretch. The pile of mail caught his eye, and he bent to retrieve it. He seriously needed to clean.

  Sliding out from the stack of computer parts magazines and trade journals came a letter with “Inmate Mail” stamped on the envelope. Charlene Yates c/o Valley State. As if she were away at college instead of prison. Not today, Sis.

  He buried the letter at the bottom of the stack, sure it contained all sorts of enlightening spiritual pap. Forgive. Be blessed. Whatever.

  He had to get cleaned up, eat and be at the dancehall on time or the guys would never let him live it down. Rowdy was never late.

  He dropped the stack of mail, covering up a sticky soda ring. His sister’s letter landed on the bottom where it belonged. Forgotten, just like the rest of the letters she’d sent him over the years.

  He just didn’t have time for Charlene’s bullshit. Besides, he’d already paid dearly for his sins.

  ROWDY SHOWERED AND dressed, then ate the leftover jambalaya his sister-in-law, Toni had sent home with him. He had to be at the dancehall by six to warm up. He'd begun playing with his band mates, Ty and Zack when he was fourteen. Right around the time his mom had dumped him on his brother-in-law, Tim, and taken off. Eventually, Susie Boudreaux had let them start playing at the Bluebonnet Dancehall and, ten years later, they still were.

  He cut through downtown Bluebonnet to the highway where the dancehall was located. They’d started a downtown revitalization project about five years back to bring in tourists from nearby San Antonio. Other than the barber, the obligatory “Curl Up And Dye,” a drugstore and bookstore, everything had gone tourist. The false fronts had been spiffed up, and, on the weekends, you could find all manner of people wandering the sidewalks of old downtown Bluebonnet, Texas, population five thousand and change.

  Twenty-two hours until he talked to Skye again.

  In over six months, he’d never stopped to consider if her name was really Skye, though it suited her saucy personality. Did people actually name their kid that? Probably, but who was he to talk. His middle name was Rowdon. He snorted in disgust as he turned under the freeway and paused at the stop sign across from the Bluebonnet Dancehall. Late afternoon sunlight bounced off the neon bluebonnet sign and corrugated tin roof.

  The dancehall’s huge gravel parking lot held only a few cars. Jessa’s big red Chevy, a couple of the waitresses cars, and Toni’s perfectly preserved, pink 1968 GTO. He grinned again, snorting softly under his breath. Tim had offered her a brand new car for her birthday last month, but she’d said no in a way that let her future husband know just how insulted she was. Rowdy had to hand it to her, the girl had style. He backed his old Bronco in beside it and climbed out.

  Rowdy pulled open the dancehall's heavy steel door, happy to get out of the early August heat. Even so late in the day, the temperatures hovered well above the hundred-degree mark. The door swung shut behind him as he paused to let his eyes adjust to the dimness. Up ahead he could hear voices. Toni and Jessa, who was Zack’s wife and the band’s lead singer. Technically, he was no more related to Jessa than any of the other Boudreauxes or Tim, but family was about more than blood, according to Miss Jessa. Rowdy tended to agree.

  At the bar, he found both women cooing over Hope, Jessa and Zack’s five-month-old daughter.

  “Y'all are gonna spoil her rotten.” Even as he spoke, he nudged them out of the way and lifted Hope from her seat. She squealed and lunged for him, a smile on her toothless face. Hope had her daddy’s red hair and dimples and her momma’s pale blue eyes and temper. And she was his first godchild.

  She smiled and babbled and patted his cheeks before inspecting his moustache and lips for flexibility. “Wher’s da ga’as?”

  He nibbled on her finger and prayed she’d let go before she ripped his lower lip off.

  The guys,” Jessa began while prying her daughter’s fingers from his mouth, “are outside throwing horseshoes, Mr. Punctuality.”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have been late.” He nibbled on Hope’s neck before handing her back to her mother.

  “Hope and I will get ‘em so we can warm up.” She took off, baby perched on her hip and disappeared through the big doors leading out to the beer garden.

  Rowdy turned to head up on stage when Toni’s throat clearing stopped him. He glanced back over his shoulder to where she stood beside the bar, drumming her fingers on the shiny laminated top.

  “Lunch tomorrow?” She arched one eyebrow and flicked her long dark curls over her shoulder.

  “I brought your bowl back. It’s in the truck.”

  “You’re such a good boy.” She smiled and patted his cheek. In retaliation, he reached out and tweaked the tip of her nose.

  “What’s for dinner?”

  She frowned and rubbed her nose. “Does it matter, you eating machine?”

  “Nope.” He wrapped her in a tight hug, ignoring her growl of protest. Heaven help Tim, she was just as stubborn about accepting displays of affection as his niece, Rene.

  “I didn’t think so.”

  THE BAND’S NIGHT went off without a hitch, as most seemed to since Jessa had joined them as their lead singer over a year ago, and darn near nine hours after he’d left the house an exhausted Rowdy showered again. After washing away the smell of smoke, he grabbed a beer then sat down to leave Skye her nightly note.

  Forty emails from the list. They’d been all wound up ever since Chris Cagle started his new tour, posting concert reviews, meet and greet photos, and making plans to get together all over the country. Rowdy shook his head and sipped his beer. He’d planned on taking Rene, but if things went well with Skye, maybe he could take her instead. He spotted a few from Skye in the bunch and smiled. At least he knew where she’d spent her evening.

  For all intents and purposes, he was one of just a few men on the list, and probably the most vocal, though they didn’t know he was a musician. Occasionally, he was tempted to set himself to no-mail just to escape the daily onslaught of gushing—which got old—but he stayed because of Skye. He scrolled through his mail and spotted some personal ones from Skye—replies to the ones he’d sent the previous night. He clicked on the one with “Kissing” in the subject line.

&nbs
p; Robbie Baby, you just love to tease me but I think you’re all talk and no action. :-)

  He chuckled at the little winking face she’d put at the end. All talk and no action, huh? He’d show her. Another was from shortly after he’d left and contained the promised list of restaurants. Good, he’d ask Tim for input tomorrow. To his surprise, the last one from her was time stamped only thirty minutes earlier.

  You always say to dream about you. Sometimes I do; sometimes I don’t. Tonight I did. I dreamed we were at some dark, tiny little dive and a woman in a long, red evening gown was singing the blues. I had on a little black silk dress and we were both all hot and sweaty. We just stood there, out on the dance floor, swaying to the music. Except for you, me and the band, the whole place was empty. I could smell you and feel you. The hairs brushing your collar, your cologne, sweat. I could feel the heat of your hands through my dress. Everything felt so real, when I woke up I had to tell you about it.

  He blew out a deep breath and read the e-mail twice more. The picture she’d painted had left him hot and gasping for air. If it weren’t nearly four in the morning, he’d have called her. Instead, he opted for a cold shower and hit the hay, plagued by dreams of blues bars and dark-haired cuties in short black dresses.

  “WHAT’S FOR DINNER?” Rowdy hollered, letting himself in Tim’s house the next afternoon. His mouth immediately set to watering at the smell of Toni’s famous pork tenderloin with peach chutney glaze.

  “What does your nose say?” Toni shouted a reply from the kitchen.