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

by Amie Stuart

  Please God, let it be some hideous mistake. That maybe Rowdy had been there to meet someone else and I'd overreacted. My brain struggled to accept the obvious. I’d seen him, smelled him even, when he wrapped an arm around me and took my keys. Tears filled my eyes, but I sniffed them back before they could fall. A crowded gas station wasn’t the place to start bawling.

  A recording finally played in my ear, announcing I’d reached Bluebonnet Computer Repair and please leave a message. I didn’t.

  By the time I got home it was after eight.

  I was supposed to be at the Riverwalk. Tonight was supposed to have been the beginning of something wonderful. At least I’d hoped so, depending on Robbie...Rowdy’s reaction, which no longer mattered.

  Tossing my purse on the counter, I stepped into the darkened living room and flopped on the suede couch, not caring, for once, if I stained the damn thing.

  I stared at the ceiling, lacking the strength to even drag myself upstairs, and let the tears come. There I slept until the clock chimed four in the morning. I was stiff and sore, and my mouth tasted like I’d licked Susie Boudreauxe’s gravel parking lot.

  In the kitchen I fixed myself some peanut butter on whole wheat and poured a glass of milk, carrying my miserably pathetic dinner/breakfast upstairs. I paused at the top of the stairs and debated whether to check my e-mail or not. Maybe he’d written. Instead of going right and taking a shower, I turned left and entered my office.

  While I waited for the computer to boot up, I nibbled on my toast, struggling not to choke on the peanut butter. The milk I sipped could have been sour for all I cared. I sighed and clicked on the mail icon, watching more mail pour in on top of this mornings. Tons of birthday wishes and tons of e-mail from the list. Nothing from Robbie. I just couldn’t bring myself to think of him as Rowdy, no matter how hard I tried.

  Throat thick with more tears, I skimmed for a bit, then deleted everything. Months worth of email, including every last goddamn email Robbie had ever sent me. The little circle icon spun as seven months of hopes and dreams slowly disappeared.

  Damn Rowdy Yates to hell!

  REDNECK BLUES

  AFTER SKYE TOOK off, nearly causing a three-car pileup in her wake, Rowdy stood on the curb, watching downtown traffic fly by, a frown on his face.

  No freaking way was that snotty, snooty, uptight little witch his Skyebaby! His angel was sweet and sassy, smart and fun and funny, full of sugar and spice. Not condescending and superior and contrary like Jade Ballard. The reality and the fantasy just didn’t mesh, but even as upset as he was, he hoped she’d be okay.

  His head still reeling, Rowdy walked the few blocks back to where he’d parked the Bronco and climbed in, cranking up the A/C. His shirt now stuck to him thanks to the evening’s heat, and her gift's silver wrapping paper had grown sweaty in his hand. He threw it and the rose onto the passenger seat, but he wasn’t ready to go home. He drove up I-35 to New Braunfels and then took Hwy 46 home. The twisty, hilly, extra long drive required all his concentration and bought him plenty of time to calm down. Once he got there, he sat in his Bronco, listening to the cicadas and wondering why he should even bother climbing out. But the sickly sweet scent of the wilted rose made staying in his huge old tin can for any amount of time impossible.

  With a sigh, Rowdy killed the engine before it overheated and blew up, slid out from behind the wheel, and slowly walked down the driveway to the mailbox on still-shaky legs. Only to be greeted by the sight of another damned letter from his sister, the California penal system’s latest bible thumper. Dammitalltohell, did she not give up?

  He shoved the letter and half a dozen fliers back inside and slammed it shut, then stood there scowling at the box. As if a poor mailbox were to blame for all his troubles. No, he was to blame. He was the one who fell for some sweet talker’s Internet bullshit.

  He lost a fight with the gate, trying to get in the yard and finally kicked it open, stomping up the walk and through the front door. His keys and her present landed on the hall table.

  Rowdy sagged against the door and slumped to the floor, not caring that his clothes might end up covered in dust.

  Tonight was supposed to have been the start of something great. The rest of his life and maybe, just maybe, some sort of future. One he’d never dreamed of. One that had previously left him with too many reservations to reach for.

  Abuse, and judging from Charlene’s letters, sheer stupidity ran in his family. She’d gotten pregnant at fifteen, been a mom at sixteen, run off at nineteen, leaving her husband and daughter behind, then become a long-term guest of the state of California.

  He would never, ever, hurt a woman or child, but that wasn’t to say he’d never committed an act of violence. His 16-year-old had never been able to shed the guilt of putting his own father in the hospital where he’d later died. Or his mother’s silent accusations. Even if he’d probably saved his mother’s life in the process. He stared unseeing at the little silver box on the table across from him, then squeezed his eyes shut.

  Rowdy didn’t want to pass that sort of legacy on to a child. He’d always been content to just be Uncle Rowdy, have a Wife-For-A-Night when needed, and go on about his business. At best, he’d hoped to someday find a woman who had kids and wouldn’t want more. At worst, he’d have remained single.

  Then, he met Skye. Jade. What the hell kind of name was Jade Skye? Was that even her name or an Internet moniker? Didn’t matter. He’d fallen for a fantasy, an illusion that was probably as much of his making as hers. As much as he knew about her, he apparently didn’t know a thing. Oldest of three, dumped at the altar by her fiancé, worked in sales. Loved music. Played the piano but couldn’t sing a lick. Got thrown out of ballet, but loved to dance anyway. Mom wouldn’t let her take tap.

  Masturbated in the shower, and had a secret desire to have sex in public or water or both. She loved to sleep in the nude under freshly washed and line-dried sheets, loved to flirt and tease, and had a sharp wit, and a slightly raunchy, down-to-earth sense of humor.

  She loved most sports, used to be an avid water skier. Guess he could see why she didn’t ski much anymore. He frowned.

  She didn’t deserve that. Jade might, but Skye didn’t, and that was his problem.

  There was only one person who could help him make sense of the mess he’d just made. Rowdy slowly scrambled to his feet, feeling as old as Mr. Johnson, who spent his days playing checkers at the feed store, and grabbed his keys off the table.

  He stopped for a six pack of beer at the little convenience store by the dancehall, and pulled into the driveway of Susie’s white and green two-story house a few minutes later.

  Rowdy parked beside her dark green Explorer and sat for a minute, collecting his thoughts before climbing out. Up on the second floor curtains blew in the open windows.

  Before he’d even reached the porch, Susie stepped outside to greet him, letting the screen door slap closed behind her. Her dark blond hair was pulled back in her customary ponytail, and she wore jeans and a T-shirt advertising a locally brewed beer. She didn’t look like a woman in her forties. But then, she didn’t act it either.

  “I thought Tim said you had a big date tonight.”

  “I brought beer.” He climbed the three steps to the porch and held up the bag.

  “Oh dear. What happened, Sug?” She tucked his arm in hers and turned toward the door.

  “You won’t believe me when I tell ya,” he replied, thankful for the sunglasses that shielded him from her probing blue eyes. “You alone?”

  “Just me and Punkin.” Punkin was a Maine Coon Cat and had been a Valentine’s Day present from her boyfriend, John Kane. The damned thing was as flaky as Rowdy’s sister and had an odd habit of sleeping in the bathtub.

  They settled on the back porch steps, with a view of the cows settling down for the night around a nearby oak tree in the pasture that backed up to her yard. Susie stuck with iced tea, but Rowdy needed a beer while he told her everything.
<
br />   “So, let me get this straight.” She leaned against the porch rail and peered at him in the early evening light. “You had a date…with my liquor sales rep?”

  “I didn’t know until I got there, Suz! How could I? We never even exchanged pictures.”

  She’d told him more than once, even when they were lovers, he needed to find himself some sweet young thing and make babies. He’d laughed at her and quipped about needing more practice first.

  Beside him now, she snorted with laughter. “I lost my last bartender to my last sales rep. Now I’ve got you dating Jade.”

  “I’m not dating her!” He angrily took a long pull off his beer.

  “I can’t believe after seven months you had no clue Jade and Skye were one in the same. How the hell did you not know, Rowdy?”

  “I didn’t even talk to Skye until last week. And the few times we spoke on the phone, she didn’t sound like Miss Snooty Ass. She sounded...kinda shy and soft-spoken. And she was funny,” he reluctantly admitted. Was Susie right? Should he have known? All the times he’d pulled his bullshit hick act on Jade, he’d been so concerned with tweaking that upturned little nose of hers, he hadn’t paid attention.

  “Told’ja so.” Susie laughed again and sipped her tea. She set the glass between her legs.

  “Thanks.” He smothered a pang of regret and another of worry and took another sip of his beer, struggling to collect his thoughts. “You think you know someone. Someone you’ve never met. You think you’ve got such a connection. You’ve got nothing.” He shook his head. “It was all just bullshit.”

  “Was it?”

  “Yup.”

  “How can you be so sure it was all BS? That she doesn’t have real feelings for you? That she’s not as hurt right now as you are. That she’s not someone special you should try and form a real relationship with, instead of that silly-ass Wife-For-A-Night routine you pulled with everyone but me.”

  “You were worth more than one night,” he quipped, ignoring her probing observations. Their affair had been brief and very quiet; he hadn’t even told Tim, and if Uncle Jerrod ever found out, he’d kill Rowdy. There hadn’t been any issues about letting Susie in, because she was already in. She’d known him all his life, knew him better than almost anyone, had left him wanting more...with someone...a connection like they’d had. He’d gotten over her just fine, it was their relationship he’d had a hard time getting over.

  “Stop it. Stop flirting. That crap doesn’t work with me.”

  He laughed, but there was no humor in it.

  “Obviously, there is something between you two, and you need to think long and hard before you do anything stupid.”

  “Hmmpf. Ain’t nothin’ to think about, I’m thinkin’.”

  “Don’t be a fool. It’s not often you get a chance for real happiness, Rowdy honey. Grab it and hold on tight while you can. You know I love you, and I wanna see you happy. So, as far as Jade is concerned—”

  “There is no Jade,” he growled. And now there wasn’t any Skye either.

  “Rowdy Yates, you’ll regret this.”

  CINDER-WHAT?

  DESPITE A RESTLESS night and lack of sleep, I was up and dressed in sweats, no makeup and my bed-head hidden under a San Antonio Spurs ball cap by 8:00 a.m. I headed north to Austin, stopping only long enough to grab a blueberry muffin and a toffee nut latte with two extra shots of espresso and whipped cream.

  If this were Dante’s Inferno, I was on my way down to the next circle of Hell. Then again, my birthday weekend officially couldn't get any worse. My choices were limited. Either mope around the house, mope in the car, or mope at the parental's house. At least at the parental's, I could work out my frustrations on my siblings.

  Not that much would faze Ms. I'm-Engaged aka Emerald. With a name like hers, Emerald should have been scarred for life, should have been a dope smoking stripper, but instead, she'd chosen something worse…to follow in Her Honorable's expensively shod footsteps and become a lawyer.

  I often wondered how someone as quiet, serious and good-natured as Daddy had hooked up with someone as annoyingly domineering as Mom. The most obvious conclusion being he must have knocked her up—a thought that made me shudder. Their wedding and our names were the two great mysteries of my life. That and if I was truly their biological child.

  Mom was a planner and meticulous about the things that mattered to her, like her political future, her future in-laws, or her social station. And, of course, how much her children's marriages would enhance her status. Appearances were everything to Her Honorable.

  After Allan left me, she'd had the nerve to suggest I get my master’s and teach, or better, try to find another husband. One who would understand me. Someone academic—like Daddy. Her words not mine. Never mind that I’d been in the process of applying for grad school when she’d come dragging Allan home, albeit for Emerald. Or maybe not. With Mom, you never really knew. Maybe that had been her way of trying to make me feel better, but I also knew she’d never let me be me on my terms.

  And, even though I still wasn’t quite sure who me truly was, three years after the fact, I had better idea.

  Because I knew who I wasn’t.

  Chris Cagle, then Norah Jones and finally P!nk kept me company as I cruised north, determined to put all thoughts of Rowdy's Perfidy from my mind, and mentally prepared myself for my mom and the long weekend ahead. Facing her was almost worse than last night's horrendous adventures, and, as far as I was concerned, my promise to God about being nice to her all weekend was officially null and void.

  Hear that, God? Null and Void!

  Apparently, He did. Her Honorable’s BMW was missing when I pulled into the curved driveway. Home was a two-story Italianate house painted a discreet shade of taupe. The open garage doors meant she was probably in court trying some incredibly important case. But Daddy, a Geology professor with full tenure, was home, his old Mercedes parked out front. He stood in the side yard dressed in a Ward Cleaver sweater, khakis that had seen much better days, and a pair of pruning shears in his hand, surrounded by beautiful variegated roses in colors from deep reddish orange edges to the palest of peach.

  I climbed out of the car and ran to hug him, very glad to be there and to have him all to myself for a while. There truly was no safer place to be than with my dad. He was the only one who ever seemed to understand me, who had never blamed me for the Great Wedding Fiasco, and who had understood my need to run away three years ago.

  He reached over, snipped three roses off and handed them to me with a tiny bow. The gallant gesture reminded me of Robbie and the rose he’d brought me last night, and my throat slammed shut with all the force of a steel wolf-trap. I swallowed and sniffled and burst into tears.

  “Well,” Daddy said, “it's good to see you, too, Sweetheart.”

  Hearing him call me sweetheart only made me cry harder. Robbie'd called me that. And sugar. I hated being called sugar. Daddy patted my back and patiently let me cry myself out.

  “Care to talk about it?” he finally asked.

  I shook my head, wiping my tears away with the back of my hand. “I should get my bags. ”

  “I dragged your bags in, Rind, and closed your car door.”

  “How's the widow doing?”

  He grinned and poured himself a glass of tea. “Which one?”

  “Whichever one you're scamming now.”

  “Should we call Allan and see if he wants to join us for dinner?”

  Low blow. Daddy cleared his throat. “Nicholas, how was class?”

  I nibbled on a cookie, tuning out their chatter about Nicholas's summer classes, and admired Daddy's garden instead. Back here roses bloomed in every color from white to blood red, and Bougainvillea grew along the wrought iron fence separating the sparkling pool from the terraced yard and the patio.

  I should have brought a swimsuit. At least here no one but Nicky would make fun of me, and I was more than a match for him. “So, what are you going to do after graduation, Ni
cky?” I muttered, trying to be polite.

  “Move in with you.”

  “The hell you say.”

  Daddy chuckled and I narrowed my eyes at him, not amused. I should have stayed home. Even as I thought it, I took another look at the huge smile on his face and knew how happy he was to have me here. I'd bite the bullet and make the best of it for his sake.

  OUR DINNER RESERVATIONS at the Woodhurst Country Club were for six that evening, and we all met in the living room beforehand for obligatory drinks, including Emerald’s fiancé, Wayne, who worked in the same firm as her and specialized in Patent Law. Zzzzzzzz.

  I'd been as polite as I could during our pre-drive cocktail, but something about him gave me the willies. Though I didn’t really care for Emerald, I’d always assumed that she'd do something more. What, I had no idea. Maybe the Supreme Court. Not be a lawyer and marry a boring lawyer and have boring, pale, lawyer babies. Wayne reminded me of William Hurt on a diet. Very thin, very sparse hair, very boring, very bland and pale.

  Unlike Robbie. I sighed. I'd managed to go almost all day without thinking of him—even during lunch and cake with Daddy and Nicky. Why now? Because, unlike Wayne, Robbie was thick and solid like a football player. Despite the apparent computer business, he obviously spent a lot of time outside, judging from his tan and freckles. He also had laugh lines. And thickly muscled forearms. And a receding hairline he apparently hid with ball caps.

  I gulped the last of my wine and forced my lips to curve into a smiled as Her Honorableness, the Mother Dictator, who so obviously approved of Wayne, glanced my way and then shifted her attention back to him. She beamed at him from beneath her perfectly arched eyebrows. Everything about her, like Emerald, was perfect, and they both always left me checking my teeth for lipstick or my hair for flyaways.

  She'd coolly wished me a happy birthday while giving me a once over, as if she knew I'd bought my silk pantsuit from a second-hand shop. It wasn't that I couldn't afford to pay good money for designer clothes—I could, within reason, and I was all for quality, but the cheapskate in me loved a bargain.