by Amie Stuart
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author's imagination and used fictitiously.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from author.
The Big Girl’s Guide To Buying Lingerie © 2015 Amie Stuart
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Cover Concept by Melissa Blue Designs
Edited by Noel Varner
Stock photography from Period Images
Formatting by Pink Ink Designs
“Chicks Dig It” and “Just Love Me” © 2003 Chris Cagle
“Just Love Me” – written by Chris Cagle and Monty Powell
“Chicks Dig It” – written by Chris Cagle and Charlie Crowe
Published by Dancehall Diaries Ltd. / www.amiestuart.com
Table of Contents
1. ALL BRAS ARE NOT CREATED EQUAL
2. MAKE A WISH
3. CELLULITE = NO THONGS
4. BLOW OUT THE CANDLES
5. GREAT EXPECTATIONS
6. REDNECK BLUES
7. CINDER-WHAT?
8. BAD BOYS
9. GOODBYE 36-C
10. BOXERS OR BOXER BRIEFS?
11. CELIBACY IS FOR LOSERS
12. THE ANGRY AMERICAN
13. BIG GIRLS DON’T
14. BIG GIRLS DO
15. THIS GIRL DOES
16. A HORSE, BY ANY OTHER NAME...
17. AIN’T MISS BEHAVIN
18. REDNECK’S GIRL
19. DEBUTANTES DO WEAR FLIPFLOPS
20. QUEST OF A REDNECK KNIGHT
21. DANCEHALLS ARE COUNTRY CLUBS TOO
22. A REDNECK KNIGHT’S TALE
23. CONFESSIONS OF A FAILED DEBUTANTE
24. JUST LOVE ME
EPILOGUE
Acknowledgements
From The Author
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. Dammit, 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 places like Target 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 all 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 is a total hottie.
And one last bra. A stuck bra. I tugged and wiggled but couldn’t free the tiny hanger 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 or his sun bleached blond 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 who 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 guess I'm just cursed.
I blew a lock of dark hair out of my eyes, which reminded me of just how badly I looked. No makeup, scarf covering my shaggy short hair, an old “Property of Chris Cagle” t-shirt and cut-off, homemade, denim 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 item 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. Paisley.”
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 p.m. 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 gl
ibly lied, and told him I’d been delayed at an emergency dental appointment.
I was so busted and by him of all people.
“I didn’t know Target did dental work. Talk about one-stop shopping.”
Unable to think of a snappy response, I flashed him a toothy smile. Thankfully, “Norma” had returned with the price. As soon as the cashier finished ringing up my purchases, I paid, got extra cash back and loaded up my stuff.
In the parking lot, I threw my bags into the back of my little silver Lexus. Twenty minutes later, I sat in my driveway, resisting the urge to rev the engine as my garage door slowly rose. Home sweet home.
Of course, home sweet home was nothing more than an undersized, overpriced two-bedroom townhouse with fabulous on-site security. I could barely afford living in such an upscale community, but the area was nice and my dad had insisted on good security…for his peace of mind. It even came with a workout facility. Not that I’d ever bothered to stick my nose inside...or any other part of me, for that matter. I should, at least, give the pool a whirl, but Sea World has Shamu, and one whale in San Antonio was plenty.
Once the car was unloaded, I stashed my diet Dr Peppers in the ‘fridge, then grabbed the bags with the last of my booty and headed upstairs.
In my office, I tossed the bag containing my new lingerie on the madras plaid-covered daybed, then collapsed in my chair with a sigh of relief and punched the computer’s power button.
I’d made it.
My top-of-the-line system had been an investment when I took the job with Svenson Imports, purveyors of fine liquor and beer.
As an outside sales representative, I only went in to the office once or twice a week, which suited my somewhat solitary lifestyle to a “T”. I visited with different accounts in the area, schmoozing on a regular schedule. After years of doing fundraising for a museum, I was a natural born salesperson. Much to my surprise—and my mother’s horror.
Anyway, one rainy, Sunday afternoon I discovered e-mail loops where you could talk to people from all over the world about everything from zits to music. That clinched it for me. I’m such a closet music groupie. I discovered a loop for my fave—country music singer Chris Cagle—and joined. The rest, as they say, was history.
According to the computer’s clock, only twenty minutes left until my meeting with Robbie.
There were about eighty e-mails from the loop. Some private stuff from Chrystine, my online BFF. And six from Robbie. My heart fluttered as I clicked on the first one with “Kissing” in the subject line:
Skyebaby...You are a naughty woman. Kissing is great foreplay though. Maybe someday we can find out?
Robbie
I spun around in the chair, trying to imagine what it might be like to kiss him. With a sigh, I clicked on the next email.
Hey Baby Girl—I giggled—Dream of me, and I’ll talk to ya tomorrow...Robbie.
I could just swoon. Lordy, that man made my heart pound. Robbie, aka ShyCowboy, and I met on the same Chris Cagle list I’d discovered right after I got my computer. At first, I’d hated his cocky, arrogant attitude. Three weeks after he joined the list we’d ended up in a fight over, of all things, ice hockey and were forced to take it private by the list owner. For heaven’s sake, San Antonio’s hockey team was barely a blip on the radar!
But taking it private was when things changed for the better. I’d discovered there was a lot more to my shy cowboy than met the eye. Our arguing had slowly evolved into teasing and flirting, and we’d spent the last seven months exchanging emails, flirting publicly on the list and talking via our instant messenger programs.
If I wasn’t out on calls, we’d spend every Sunday through Wednesday chatting on and off through the afternoon and into the evening. Thursday through Saturday I got one precious hour with Robbie—from 3:00 to 4:00 p.m. I had no idea what he did with his weekends, but he always got online real late and left me a note. I’d never had the nerve to ask him where he went. I wasn’t sure I wanted to know. I suppose it was none of my business, but that didn’t stop the feelings of jealousy.
Robbie was my best friend with perks, and as strange as it might sound, I loved him. I know any therapist worth their salt would say my anonymous relationship was probably unhealthy. And, of course, there was the whole jilted girl, rebound issue, too. How could I love someone I’d never met? I had no clue, but he was sweet and funny and sensitive. Just don’t tell him that to his face. We’d had quite an argument about that one, but he obviously cared deeply about his friends and family.
Silly maybe, but I felt as though I knew Robbie better than anyone, and vice versa, despite, or maybe because of, the lack of photos. A subject usually tossed aside by me. Maybe our closeness had something to do with the freedom that came with not talking face-to-face, but there wasn’t much I hadn’t shared, including being dumped, at the altar, for a stripper, and I felt as if he’d done likewise.
Okay, so, maybe not everything. He has no clue I’m fat. I just can't bring myself to tell him, to type those two tiny little words—I’m Fat. And trying to pretty it up with words like plump or chubby left me cringing.
But even when I’d been shopping today, I’d thought about him while picking out bras and panties, wondering if he’d like them. That thought left me feeling anxious and slightly queasy. The last time I’d gotten naked in front of a man had been three years and many pounds ago.
Fifteen minutes. Shaking off my slight funk, I headed for the bag I’d thrown on the daybed behind me, yanking out the first bra--the baby blue one.
I ripped off the tags, quickly stripped and struggled into the new one. Struggled being the operative word.
I turned around and winced at my reflection in the cheval-glass mirror. Rumpled short hair and cut-off jeans framed a large expanse of pale flab. The bra was tangled, the straps and the band across my back were both twisted. Its awkward, swimsuit-like design made straightening everything difficult, but I muddled through, yanking and wriggling until I was somewhat satisfied. I blew on my sweaty bangs, then pushed them off my forehead and took a good look. My DD’s pooched from the cups, and not in a sexy I’ve-got-cleavage sort of way either, but in a honey-your-bra-is-too-small way. Ugh.
The pale blue torture device was my size, but it damned sure didn’t fit. Cut too low, with no support, and it looked like a bikini top. As if!
Underwires should be a certain height and cups should be made out of thick soft material. Padding should be limited to A and B cups, and maybe C’s. Padding was not an area I needed help in. And most importantly of all, good support shouldn’t cost thirty dollars a cup!
Why don’t they make all bras the same? Why don’t they have international standards like they do for weights and measures and tools? Honestly! Never mind that I should have tried them on before leaving the store; I’d been in a hurry!
The bra was hideous. I sighed and checked the time.
Ten minutes. And one more bra. The pink and maroon paisley bra poking out of the bag made me grimace. No way. Not happening. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe never. Yeah, as in never mind. At least that one I could return. I slipped the instrument of self-abuse off and threw my t-shirt back on, sans bra. No need for more punishment, since I was alone.
‘Ding.’
My head snapped up like a fox to the scent and I focused on the screen.
Skyebaby—blinked in the message box.
He’s early was followed by, shit! I still needed my Dr Pepper and my cookies. I slipped into the chair and typed with shaking fingers.
Be right back.
I hustled out the door and down the stairs, nearly falling and busting my ass on the kitchen tile. Glass of ice. Dr Pepper. Cookies. Back through the living room and upstairs I trudged, practically wheezing by the time I collapsed in my chair.
ShyCowboy: Hurry up Skye, I only have an hour, waited for me when I got back.
Skyebaby: You’re early! How was your day?
My fingers flew as I worked to catch my breath. While I waited on his
response, I popped open my first soda and poured it over the ice, then ripped opened the cookies, jamming one between my teeth. He still hadn’t responded.
Skyebaby: I’m getting you typing lessons for Christmas.
ShyCowboy: Not too bad. Sure glad it’s Saturday and I got to sleep in. Why don’t you come give me typing lessons, Miss Speedy Skye?
Skyebaby: I hear the Junior College teaches typing, and that’s what you get for going out partying all night.
There was no way I could give him typing lessons. Lately, Robbie’d really, really been pushing the ‘let’s meet’ buttons, offering me everything from breakfast in bed—didn’t I wish—to a night out on the town when Chris Cagle played here in November. Talk about dangling a carrot.
I wavered back and forth, tempted more and more by Robbie’s ever-increasing hints to go ahead and take the plunge. Tempted by the need for something…real, despite my unwillingness to tell Robbie I was fat. I reached for another cookie, briefly wondering where the first one went, nibbled on it and letting the shortbread and chocolate melt in my mouth. Yum.
ShyCowboy: Aw now. You don’t wanna teach me to type? I’ll let you kiss me when I’m good
Skyebaby: So what exactly qualifies as good? And what if you’re bad?
Almost able to hear the drawl in his voice. I pressed my thighs together. I’d kiss him even if he were bad.
I dusted the crumbs from my jeans, then frowned in irritation at my denim-clad thighs. I needed my sweats! Sweats, cookies, soda...and Robbie. Couldn’t have one without the others!
I darted across the hall, shimmying out of my jeans while ignoring the war-zone that was my bedroom. Grabbing my sweats off the chaise in the corner, I slipped them on, wriggling and hopping back toward my office. God help me if I mis-hopped and plunged down the stairs. I could see the headlines: “Fat Woman Dies In Freak Accident.”
Back in my office, I glanced up at the monitor.