Can Ro Andrews, an overworked, undersexed, exasperated single mom, find love with Sam–a man allergic to chaos and crumbs—and make it stick, not sticky?

 

When new divorcee Ro Andrews moves her pack of semi-feral children to a run-down farmhouse, helping her brother restore the moldering homestead and living an authentic life—per the dictates of Instagram and lifestyle blogs everywhere—tops her to-do list. But romance? Hell, no. Between hiding from her children in baskets of dirty laundry, mentally eviscerating her cheating ex, and finding a job, Ro has a full plate.

 

Until she meets Sam Whittaker, a hunky Texas transplant with abs of steel and a nameplate that reads Boss. Clad in cowboy boots and surfer curls, this child-free stud has Ro on edge—and rethinking her defective Y chromosome ban. Somehow, this overworked, undersexed, exasperated single mom needs to find time to fall in love with a man allergic to chaos and crumbs and make it stick, not sticky.

 

 

Chapter One

 

As my young son’s cries echo through this diner, I’m reminded again why some animals eat their young.

It’s because they want to.

“Hey, Mom! Nick farted, and he didn’t say excuse me!”

Normally when Aaron, my spunky six-year-old, announces something so crudely, we’re at home, and his booming voice is muted by the artfully arranged basket of dirty laundry I’ve shoved my head into in hopes of hiding like an ostrich from a tiny, tenacious predator.

This time, however, Aaron yells it in the middle of a crowded diner in the small, stranger-adverse, southern Illinois town we’re about to call home and, frankly, we don’t need any more attention. Thanks to my semi-feral pack of three lippy offspring, we’ve already lit this place on fire, and not in a good way.

Despite our involuntary efforts to unhinge the locals with our strangers-in-a-strange-land antics, this dumpy, dingy diner, minus its frosty clientele, has a real comfortable feel, not unlike the ratty, stretched-out yoga pants I love but no longer wear because a) they don’t fit any more and b) I burned them—along with a voodoo doll I crafted of my ex-husband (see my Pinterest board for patterns), after I forced it to have sex with my son’s GI Joe action figure (see downward-facing dog for position).

Crap. I should have put the pictures on Instagram. Wait, I think they’re still on my phone.

“Mom!” Aaron bellows again.

Right now, I’d kill for a pile of sweaty socks to dive into, but there’s nary a basket of tighty-whities in sight, and that kid loves an audience, even a primarily rural, all-white-bread, mouth-gaping, wary one.

Frowning, I point at his chair. “Sit.”

More than a bit self-conscious, I scan the room, hoping for signs of defrost from the gawking audience and pray my attempt to sound parental falls on nearby ears, earning me scant mom points. Of course, a giant burp which may have contained three of the six vowel sounds just erupted from my faux angelic four-year-old daughter, Madison, so I’ll kiss that goodwill goodbye. I hand her a napkin and execute my go-to look, a serious I-mean-it-this-time scowl. “Maddy, say excuse me.”

“Excuse me.”

*belch*

Good lord, I’m doomed.

“Listen to me, Mom. Nick farted.”

I fork my chef salad with ranch dressing on the side and raise an eyebrow at my youngest son. “Knock it off, kiddo.”

“You said when we fart, we have to say excuse me, and he didn’t.” Finally, Aaron sits, unaware I’ve been stealing his fries, also on the side.

Kids, so clueless.

Nick, my angelic eight-year-old, is hot on his brother’s heels and equally loud, “We don’t have to say it when we’re on the toilet. You can fart on the toilet and not say excuse me. It’s allowed. Ask Mom.”

Aaron picks up a water glass and holds it to his mouth. “It sounded like a raptor.” He blows across the top, filling the air with a wet, revolting sound, once again alarming the nearby locals. “See?” He laughs. “Just like a raptor.”

I point at his plate and scrutinize the last of his hamburger. “Thank you for that lovely demonstration, now finish your lunch.”

Naturally, as we discuss fart etiquette, the locals are still gawking, and I can’t blame them. We’re strangers in a county where I’m betting everyone knows each other somehow and, here’s the real shocker, we’re not merely passing through. We’re staying. On purpose.

We’re not alone, either. My brother, Justin, his wife, Olivia, and their bubbly toddler twins kickstarted this adventure—moving to the sticks—so we’re eight in total. Admittedly, this all sounded better a month ago when we adults hashed it out over too much wine and a little bit of vodka. Okay, maybe a lot of vodka. Back then, Justin had been headhunted for a construction manager job here in town, and I was in a post-divorce, downward-spiral bind, so they invited the kiddies and me to join them.

For me, I hope it’s temporary until I can get settled somewhere, as in land a job, land a purpose, land a life. When they offered, I immediately saw the appeal—the more distance between me and the ex and his younger, sluttier girlfriend the better—and I decided to move south too.

Now I can’t back out. I’ve already sold my house which buys me time, but I’ve got nowhere else to go. Where would I land? I’ve got three kids and limited skills. Plus, I don’t even have a career to use as an excuse to change my mind or to even point me in another direction.

In other words, I’m stuck. Whether I want to or not, I’m relocating to a run-down farmhouse in the middle of nowhere Illinois to help Justin and Olivia with their grandiose plans of fixing it up and living “authentic” lives since, according to Instagram, Pinterest, and lifestyle blogs everywhere, manicured suburbs with cookie-cutter houses, working utilities and paved sidewalks don’t count. Unless you’re stinking rich, which, unfortunately, we, most definitely, are not.

Let’s see, Justin has a new career opportunity, Olivia is going to restore, repaint, repurpose, and blog her way to a book deal, and me…and me…

Nope. I got nothing. No plans, no dreams, no job, nada. Here I am, the not-so-proud owner of a cheap polyester wardrobe with three kids rapidly outgrowing their own. I better come up with something, and quick.

Where’s cheesecake when you need it? I stab a cherry tomato, pluck it from my fork, and chew. The world is full of people living their dreams, while mine consists of an unbroken night’s sleep and a day without something gooey in my shoes. I take aim at a cucumber slice, pop it in my mouth, and pretend it’s a donut. At least I don’t have to wash these dishes.

Across from me, Olivia, my sometimes-vegan sister-in-law is unaware I’m questioning my life’s purpose while she questions her lunch choice. Unsatisfied, she drops her mushroom melt onto her plate and frowns. I knew it wouldn’t pass inspection. She may have lowered her standards to marry my brother, but she’d never do so for food. This is why she and I get along so well.

Olivia rocks back in her chair and smacks her lips, dissatisfied. “There’s no way this was cooked on a meat-free grill. I swear I can taste bacon. Maybe sausage too.” Her tongue swirls around in her mouth, searching for more hints of offending pork. “Definitely sausage.”

Frankly, I enjoy finding pork in my mouth. Then again, I have food issues. Though, if I liked munching tube steak more often, perhaps my ex wouldn’t have wandered. The bastard.

Justin watches his wife’s tongue roll around, and I don’t blame him. She’s beautiful—dark, luminous eyes, full lips flushed a natural pink glow, cascading dark curls, radiant brown skin, a toned physique despite two-year-old twins. She’s everything I am not.

She tells me I’m cute. Of course, the Pillsbury Dough Boy is cute too. Screw that. I want to be hot.

Regardless, I expect something crude to erupt from my brother’s mouth as he stares at his lovely bride, so I’m pleasantly surprised when it doesn’t. Instead, he shakes his head and works on his stack of onion rings. “What do you expect when you order off menu in a place like this, babe? Be glad they had portobellos.”

Across from me, she frowns. Model tall and fashionably lean, she’s casually elegant in a turquoise and brown print maxi dress, glittery dangle earrings, silky black curls, and daring red kitten heels that hug her slender feet. How does she do it? She exudes an easy glamour even as she peels a corner of toasted bun away from her sandwich, revealing a congealed mass of something.

“This isn’t a portobello. It’s a light dove gray, not a soft, deep, charcoal gray. I’m telling you this is a bad sandwich. I’m not eating it.” She extracts her fingers from the offending fungus and crosses her bangle bracelet encased arms.

Foodies. Go figure. No Instagram picture for you, sandwich from hell.

Fortunately their twins, Jaylen and Jayden, adorable in matching Swedish-inspired sweater dress ensembles and print tights, are less picky. Clearly, it comes from my chunky side of the family. They may be dressed to impress, but the ketchup slathered over their precious toddler faces says, “We have Auntie Ro’s DNA in us somewhere.”

I love that.

Justin cuts up the last half of a cold chicken strip and shares it with his daughters, who are constrained by plastic highchairs—which I can’t do with my kids any more, darn the luck—and, in addition to having no idea how to imitate raptors with half-empty water glasses like my boys or identify mushrooms by basis of color like their mother, they are still quite cute.

Love them as I do, my boys haven’t been cute for a while. Such a long while. Maddy, well, she’s cute on a day-to-day basis. Yet, they are my world. My phlegm covered, obnoxious, arguing world.

Justin wipes Jaylen’s cheek and checks his phone. “We need to get the bill. It’s getting late.”

I survey the room, hunting for our waitress. Despite the near constant stranger stares, this place intrigues me. It feels a hundred years old in a good, cozy way. The diner’s creaky, wood floor is well worn and the walls are exposed brick, which is quaint in restaurants even if it detracts from the value in Midwestern homes, including the giant moldering one Justin and Olivia bought northeast of town. Old tin advertising posters depict blue ribbon vegetables and old-time tractors in shades of red and green and yellow on the walls, and they may be the real antique deal.

They’re really into primary colors, these farm folks. Perhaps the best way to spice up a quiet life is to sprinkle it with something bright and shiny. As for me, I’ve been living in dull shades of beige for at least half a marriage now, if not longer. Should I try bright and shiny? Couldn’t hurt.

Red-pleather booths line the wall of windows to the left, and a row of tables divides the room, including the two tables we’ve shoved together which my children have destroyed with crumbs, blobs of ketchup, and snot. Of course, the twins helped too, but they’re toddlers so you can’t point a finger at them especially since all the customers are too busy pointing fingers at mine.

Bar stools belly up to a Formica counter to the right, and it’s all very old school and quaint, although I would hate to have to clean the place, partly because Maddy sneezed, and her mouth was open and full of fries.

Kids. So gross.

Three portly gentlemen in caps, flannel, and overalls overflow from the booth closest to our table and, clearly, they’re regulars. They’re polishing off burgers and chips, though no one is sneezing with his mouth open, most likely because his teeth will fly out in the process. I imagine the pleather booths are permanently imprinted with the marks of old asses from a decade’s worth of lunches. Sometimes it’s good to make an impression. The one we’re currently making, however? Probably not.

Nearly every table, booth, and stool are taken. Must be a popular place. Or it may be the only place in this itty, bitty town. It’s the type of place where everyone knows your name, meaning they all stared the minute we walked in because they don’t know ours, it’s a brisk Tuesday in early November, and we sure aren’t local.

Yet.

Several men of various ages in blue jeans and farm hats sit in a row upon the counter stools, munching their lunches. A smattering of conversations on hog feed, soybean yields, and tractor parts fills the air. They all talk at once, the way guys tend to do, with none of them listening except to the sound of his own voice, the way guys also tend to do, like stray dogs in a pound when strangers check them out and they’re hoping to impress.

Except for one of them, the one I noticed the minute we walked in and have kept tabs on ever since. Unlike the others, this man is quiet and, better yet, he doesn’t have the typical middle-aged, dad-bod build. While most of the other men are stocky and round, square and cubed, pear shaped and apple dumpling-esque, like bad geometry gone rogue, he isn’t. He’s tall with a rather broad triangular back and, given the way it’s stretching the confines of his faded, dark red, button-down shirt, it’s a well-muscled isosceles triangle at that. Brown cowboy boots with a Texas flag burned on the side of the wooden heel peek from beneath seasoned blue jeans, and those jeans cling to a pair of muscular thighs that could squeeze apples for juice.

God, I have a hankering for hot cider. With a great big, thick, rock-hard cinnamon stick swirling around too. Hmmm, spicy.

This Midwestern cowboy’s dark-brown hair is thick with a slight wave that would go a tad bit wild if he let it, and he needs to let it. Who doesn’t love surfer curls, and his are perfect. They’re the kind I could run my fingers through forever or hang onto hard in the sack, if need be. Trust me, there’s a need be.

His body is lean, yet strong, and beneath his rolled-up sleeves, there’s a swell of ample biceps and the sinewy lines of strong, tan forearms. It’s a tan I’m betting goes a lot further than his elbows. His face is sun-kissed too, and well-defined with high cheekbones and a sturdy chin. A hint of fine lines fan out from the corners of his chocolate-brown eyes and, while not many, there’re enough to catch any drool should my lips happen to ravage his face.

Facial lines on guys are so damn sexy. They hint at wisdom, experience, strength. Lines on women should be sexy too, even the stretchy white, hip-dwelling ones from multiple, boob-sucking babies, but men don’t think that way, which is why I only objectify them these days. Since getting literally screwed over by my ex, I’m the permanent mascot for Team Anti-Relationship. I blame those defective Y chromosomes myself. Stupid Y chromosomes.

Regardless, it’s difficult not to watch as this well-built triangle of a man wipes his mouth with a napkin. I wouldn’t mind being that white crumpled paper in that strong tan hand, even if I, too, end up spent on the counter afterward. At any rate, he stands, claps the guy to his left on the back, and I may have peed myself.

The sexy boot-clad stranger pulls cash from his wallet and sets it on the lucky napkin. “I’ve got to get back to the elevator, Phil. Busy day.”

Sweet, a Texas accent. How very Matthew McConaughey. Mama like.

A pear-shaped man next to him raises his glass. “See ya, Sam. You headed to George’s this afternoon?”

“I hope so. I need to get with Edmund first, plus we have a couple of trailers coming in, and I’ve got to do a moisture check on at least two of them.” His voice is low, but soft, the way you hope a new vibrator will sound, but never does until the batteries die which defeats the purpose, proving once again irony can be cruel.

And what the hell is a moisture check?

I zero in on the open button of his shirt, drawn to his chest like flies to honey, because that’s what I do now that I’m divorced and have no husband and no purpose—I ogle strange men for the raw meat they are. Nothing’s going to happen anyway. Truth be told, I haven’t dated in an eternity and have no real plans to start, partly because I’ve forgotten how; just another unfortunate aspect of my life on permanent hold. I’ve been invited to the singles’ buffet, but I’m too afraid to grab a plate. At this point in my recently wrecked, random life, I would rather vomit. Hell, I barely smell the entrees. I’m only interested in licking a hunk of two-legged meatloaf for the sauce anyway. There’s no harm in that, right?

Where was I? Right, his chest, and it’s a good chest, with the “oood” dragged out like a child’s Benadryl-laced nap on a hot afternoon. It’s that goood.

Of course, as I mentally drag out the “oood,” my lips involuntarily form the word in the air imitating a goldfish in a bowl. While I ogle this particular cut of prime rib, I realize he’s noticed my stare not to mention my “oood” inspired fish lips, which is not an attractive look, despite what selfie-addicted college girls think. Our eyes lock. An avalanche of goosebumps crawls its way up my back and down my arms and, I swear, I vibrate. Not like one of those little lipstick vibrators that can go off in your purse at the airport, thank you very much, but something more substantial with a silly name like Rabbit or Butterfly or Bone Master.

That, my friends, is the closest I’ve come to real sex in two and half years. Excuse me, but we need a moisture check at table two, please. Not to mention a mop. Okay…definitely a mop.

For a moment, we hold our stare—me with my fish lips frozen into place, vibrating silently in my long-sleeved, heather green T-shirt and jeans, surrounded by my small tribe of ketchup-covered children, and him all hot, tan, buff, and beefy, staring at us the way one gawks at a bloody, ten-car pile-up. All too soon, he blinks, the deer-in-the-headlights look fades, and he drops his gaze.

C’mon, stud, look again. I’m not wearing a push-up bra for nothing.

Big, dark, brown eyes pop up again and find mine. All too soon, they flit away to the floor.

Score.

Damn, he’s fine. Someone smoke me a cigarette, I’m spent.

I scan the table, imagining my children are radiating cuteness. No dice. Aaron imitates walrus tusks with the last of his French-fries, Nick is trying to de-fang him with a straw full of root beer, and Maddy’s two-knuckles deep into a nostril. And I’m sitting next to Justin.

Figures. My big, burly, ginger-headed, lug of a wedding-ring-wearing brother is beside me. Does this hunk of burning stud think he’s my husband? Should I pick my own nose with my naked, ring-less finger? Invest in a face tattoo that reads “divorced and horny?” Why do I even care? He’s only man meat. After all, was he really even looking at me? Or Olivia? Sexy, sultry, damn-sure-married-to-my-brother Olivia? I whip back to the stud prepared to blink “I’m easy” in Morse code.

*blink* *blink* *bliiiink*

With a spin on his star-studded boots, Hotty McHot heads toward the hallway at the back of the diner, oblivious that my gaze is rivetted to his ass and equally clueless to the fact that I have questions needing immediate answers, not to mention an overwhelming need to scream, “I’m single and put out, no strings attached” in his general direction.

Olivia pulls me back to reality with her own questions. “I mean, is it that difficult to scrape the grill before you cook someone’s meal?”

She’s still honked off about her sandwich, unaware I’m over here having mental sex with the hunky cowboy while sending my kids off to a good boarding school for the better part of the winter.

“I didn’t have many options here,” she rattles on, “even their salads have meat and egg in them. Instead of a writing a book, I should open a vegan restaurant. I was going to give them a good review for the ambiance, but not now. Wait until I post this on Yelp.”

Eyeballing the room, Justin polishes off the last of his double-cheese burger. “Sweetie, we’re moving to the land of pork and beef. Vegan won’t fly here, and I doubt the help cares about Yelp. Did you notice our waitress? She’s got a flip phone. Time to put away your inner princess and stick with the book idea.”

Long fingers with bronze gel manicured nails rat-a-tat-tat on the tabletop. She locks onto him with dark, intelligent, laser-beam eyes. “Would it kill you to be supportive, honey bunch? You might as well say, uck-fay u-vay.”

Apparently channeling some weird, inner death wish, Justin picks up an onion ring, takes a bite, then pulls a string of overcooked translucent slime free from its breaded coating. He snaps it free with his teeth, then offers it to her. “Your book is going to be great, babe, and it will appeal to a larger audience than here. Remember the goal, Liv. As for me, I’m trying to keep you humble. No one likes high maintenance.”

The limp, greasy onion hangs in the air. She ignores it, but not him. “Okay, this time, sweetie, I’ll say it. Uck-fay u-vay with an ig-bay ick-day.”

Jaylen looks up from her highchair and munches a chicken strip. “Uck-fay?” she repeats through fried poultry. “Ick-day?”

Behind her an older woman, also fluent in pig Latin, does a coffee-laced spit-take in her window booth. I hope she’s not a new neighbor.

Justin chuckles and polishes off the offending string of onion. Olivia stews. Time to implement an offense. Clearly, we need an exit strategy.

Where’s our waitress? I spy her delivering plates of food three booths down and wave. She nods, so I use these few moments to ward off any drama. “Suggestion, you two. Let’s not piss off the help. This may be the only place where we can hide from the kids and eat our feelings. Not to mention drink. Agreed?”

Justin snorts, but says nothing. Olivia rolls her eyes, but also says nothing. Success, although it’s tentative. Time to leave.

Water pitcher in hand, our waitress returns to our table. She surveys the left-over lunch carnage, unaware my sister-in-law is both unimpressed and pissed off, and it’s fairly obvious that, if we’re all going to be regulars here, a sizeable tip, different children, or the offer of a kidney is in order. A middle-aged woman in jeans, T-shirt, and an apron with short, no-nonsense, dishwater hair, she refills our water glasses, possibly so I’ll have something with which to wipe the seats or drown our young. Or both. I can’t be sure. But I’m open to options.

She sets the water pitcher on the table and starts stacking dirty plates. “Ready for dessert?” She’s a bit harried, and, with the possibility of an eruption from Olivia hanging over our heads, I pick up a napkin and start wiping. “We have cherry cobbler.”

An indignant cry erupts from the booth behind us. One of the three portly gentlemen hollers—this is the kind of place where you holler— “Save me a piece of cobbler.”

“Yeah, yeah, in a minute, Ernie.” The waitress scowls. “What else can I get you? Pie? Cake? The coffee’s fresh.”

“Yeah, but it ain’t good though,” barks the man named Ernie. A fresh wave of snorts erupts from his companions.

I stifle a laugh, but it’s a challenge, especially since Aaron’s been flicking my salad croutons in their general direction throughout most of the meal and, despite my scolding, he’s getting quite good with his trick shots.

“I bet you’ve done this before,” I say to the woman whose name tag reads “Anna.”

She glares at the booth. “Yep, they’re regulars. Of course, I call ’em a pain in the butt, myself.”

“Good to know, Anna.”

“Name’s Sarah. This is the only tag we had left.”

Of course. Naturally, the crusty old guys are regulars in a diner where everyone knows your name, so you wear a tag that isn’t your own, presumably for strangers who rarely show up on a Tuesday. I like this quirky town, even if it doesn’t like me.

“Where are you all from? Chicago?” pries the waitress formerly known as Anna.

Olivia avoids eye contact and spit shines her twins. “Is it obvious?”

Curious, Sarah takes in the dress, the earrings, the bright red shoes. “Yep. What brings you through town?”

Backs stiffen throughout the room. Heads swivel in our direction. The general roar of conversation drops a decibel or two, all the better to eavesdrop, I assume.

I confiscate Maddy’s spoon and add it to the pile of flatware on my salad plate, then plunge on before anyone at our table offers an unwelcomed critique of the menu. “We’re moving here. They bought a place on Stockpile Road, Thornhill.”

Eyes stare from all corners of the diner. Bodies sit taller. Ears bend toward us, and whispers swim across a sea of faces.

“Thornhill?” Sarah cocks her head. “You mean old lady Yeager’s place? I hope you’re good with a hammer.”

“It needs a bulldozer,” shouts a voice from the back.

“Stick a sock in it, Ernie. Men,” she mutters.

“I’ve got a toxic ex and a lot of frustration, so…” I imitate a manic hammering motion, but, getting no response from the masses, I load up Aaron’s spoon with croutons and keep talking. “Justin’s in construction—he’s starting a new job here next week. He’ll put us to work on the house. Should be fun.”

Olivia stares at the hunk of sandwich left on her plate before looking pointedly at our waitress. “I plan to blog about the experience—articles on reclaiming the house, restoring the gardens, growing our own vegetables and herbs, recipes, homemade soaps. Think avant-garde Martha Stewart. It’s what I do.”

Sarah blinks rapidly as she digests Olivia’s words. “Ah.” She hesitates. “Want a doggie bag?”

Justin chokes on the last bite of his burger as he examines his phone. “Not necessary, but thanks. Can we get our bill though?”

A finger-painted, ketchup rendition of a farting raptor rambles across Aaron’s plate. Sarah sets down her stack of dishes, rips our bill from the order pad in her apron pocket, and picks up my son’s plate without so much as an appraisal. “So, you all are moving here. Good to know. I haven’t been up there in years.” She adds another plate to her stack, obliterating his finger art. “I hear it’s a real project. Anyway, good luck, and welcome to town.” She spins on her heels with arms full of dirty dishes. “You can pay at the register.”

Justin tucks his phone in his pocket and wipes his mouth, pleased with his greasy, meaty lunch. “We need to get going. The movers will be here within the hour.”

My heart does a double thump. Time to head to the new homestead. True, I’m a hanger-on in this adventure of theirs, just a barnacle on their barge, but I’m excited too even if I haven’t been to the place yet. Desperate to reignite my life, the promise of a thousand potential projects, plans, and ideas leap to mind, calling out to me with hope. Maybe this is where I’ll find myself. Or a purpose beyond wiping tiny hineys. Something. Anything, really.

Ready to settle the bill, I toss two twenties at Justin. “Here’s my cash. Can you pay mine too? I’ll run to the restroom, and then we’ll get out of here. Sound good?

He grabs the cash. “Yep. Get going, sis. I got this.”

My imagination whirls with anticipation as I rise. Roughly fifteen minutes from now, we should be there, home. Can a fresh start be far behind?

Oblivious to my growing excitement, Aaron considers me for a moment as I push back from the table, ready to roll. “Mom, if you fart in there, are you going to say excuse me?”

Nick polishes off his root beer and sets his glass on the table. “I bet she won’t. I bet she’ll sit there, fart, and say nothing.”

Good gravy, will they get off this topic already? My stern gaze falls on blind eyes. Ignoring them, I make a hasty exit to the restroom, but Aaron once again sends shockwaves through the diner with his cry, “Will you tell us if you fart?”

*sigh*

Maybe I can outrun his voice. I rush away and turn the corner sharp, seeking sanctuary in the women’s room. Instead, however, I spy something even better. Speeding toward me from an open door at the end of the hall is Hottie McHot-Stuff, the good-looking cowboy with moisture on his mind.

We both stop short. I sidestep right, as he sidesteps left into my path. We chuckle. Immediately we both dance the other way, blocking one another yet again.

I flash him a smile and grin. “Sorry about that. How about I stop, and you walk on by?”

Hints of vanilla, pine, and leather waft my way. He nods agreement, and our eyes connect. For a moment, we hold yet another stare.

Damn, he’s even better looking up close and personal. I could get used to this. Heat rises in my face—where’d that come from? Moisture rises in my jeans—I know where that came from.

All too soon, he breaks our gaze and sidesteps around me. “Excuse me and thank you.” Boots clack on the wooden floor, and he saunters away, dragging a steam cloud from my body in his wake. It’s a wonder the candy-striped wallpaper in the hallway doesn’t peel.

Happy to have a new hobby, I peek over my shoulder and gape at each swaying butt cheek. “You’re welcome,” I mumble as his blue-jean clad McNuggets disappear around the corner. “You are very welcome.”

Into the diner restroom I go, daydreaming about hot cowboys and diner sex. A random inspection of my breasts, hoping they impressed, halts my midday revelry. Because, naturally, there’s a hunk of crusted ketchup clinging to my left boob.

Perfect. At least there isn’t a French fry in my cleavage. Or is there?

I scrape at the hardened blob with marginal success, preferring to study this fresh new stain on my old, dumpy T-shirt rather than the current flustered face in the mirror. I hate mirrors. The view always disappoints, even now after I’ve dropped a few dozen post-divorce, pissed-off pounds. But, as I de-crust and wash my hands, I finally look up.

Stain or no stain, I want to see what the cowboy saw.

A round, pixie face with a smattering of freckles that in twenty years when I’m pushing fifty everyone will assume are age spots. Bright green eyes with ex-husband anger issues and a twinkle of insanity. A hint of frown lines spreading across my pale, translucent forehead, explaining my new-found love of long, wispy bangs. Reddish blonde hair thanks to a box from the grocery store. A great big mouth built for yelling and eating. Yep. That about sums it up.

I pinch my cheeks for color because, nowadays, for sheer self-respect alone and in spite of my self-imposed dating ban, I’m making an effort. The truth is, in my full-time baby-making years, I’ll admit I didn’t most days. A relentless, nonstop tug of war between keeping it together or giving up and letting everything go to seed waged inside me as I confronted dirty diapers, dirty dishes, dirty underwear, and dirty socks. Clad in sensible shoes and something stretchy most days, I only wanted to be comfortable.

News flash. Husbands hate comfortable.

Which is why I am comfortable no more. Time to flush and flee. My old chubby life swirls down the crapper, and my new, uncomfortable, slightly less chubby, but even less focused one awaits. Halle-freaking-lujah, I’m a stalled work in progress.

Drowning in my personal funk, I toss a paper towel in the trash and bolt from the bathroom, far away from the mirror when—slam!

A tall, thin, elderly man sways, reduced to a sapling in a strong breeze, threatening to collapse to the floor under the weight of my rapidly advancing body. He’s bundled up in a thick coat, and thank heavens, too, because his right lapel is the only thing that kept him upright.

I cling to it now, gripping with all my might as he steadies his skinny legs beneath himself. His dusty brown bowler hat tilts far forward on a patch of thin silver hair, and there’s a spare quality about him.

A tired, watery stare falls upon me, and his initial alarm gives way to anger. “Young lady, watch yourself!”

Why couldn’t I have slammed into the cowboy? I could have grabbed something more substantial than this old man’s coat.

Letting go of the gentleman’s lapels, I lurch backward. “Oh, my gosh, I’m sorry!”

He stands erect, but even with his dignity restored, his anger grows. “You, young people. You don’t think, none of you. You have no concept of your own actions, no sense of responsibility!”

Holy crap. What do I say to that? I’m tongue-tied. After all, I did mow him down with my mom thighs. Plus, he thinks I’m “young people,” and he sounds like he means it, possibly even enough to pinkie swear.

However, neither of us whips out a tiny digit. Instead, we stand there, locked in stony silence. “Sorry,” I repeat for want of anything else to say.

Finally, he turns with a huff and disappears around the corner into the dining room.

Great. We’ve barely been in town an hour, and I am far from making friends.

Shaken, I hesitate. Please let this move be the right decision. Please?

It has to be because, right now, I’m a freaking mess. Somehow, I managed to abdicate control over my life to a man who eventually chafed under the responsibility. Now? Now, post-divorce, I’m a rudderless ship, a floating piece of flotsam bobbing downstream, willy nilly, with no real goals or plans other than to make this move, which may or may not be a smart move. What if this proves to be a dead end too? I can’t have any more dead ends. Wasn’t my marriage enough?

Everyone else has it together. Why the hell don’t I?

Desperate for hope, I settle for a plea to the universe instead. Alone in the hall, eyes closed, back against the wall, I give it a go.

Hey, universe, will you please let this move be the right decision for me and my kiddies? Please? With sugar on top?

No one answers, God, Karma, the universe, or alien overlords for whom I am a rapidly failing SIMS avatar, nothing.

Was I expecting an answer?

*sigh*

No.

I’m alone in the hallway. No skinny old men or hot, buff cowboys walk my way. Regrets, fear, and second thoughts burn behind my eyelids, threatening tears. Steeling myself, I open my eyes, ready to swipe them away before any should fall when I notice it.

A bulletin board anchors the opposite wall, demanding my attention. It’s plastered with everything from hay for sale (first cut too, which I assume is the deepest) to pictures of mixed-breed puppies alongside notices for church chili suppers. Bluegrass music drifts in from the dining area, and I drink it in, savoring the ambiance, searching for a sign.

Wait, what’s this? An employment ad? For an actual job? Who in the hell advertises on bulletin boards in this digital age? Better question, is it a sign from the universe? A random act of coincidence? A magical stroke of luck?

Who cares? It’s an ad. I lean forward and read.

“Local businessman with multiple enterprises seeks organized, responsible individual to serve as part-time office manager with potential for full time available. Knowledge of basic accounting a plus. Requires good communication skills, customer service, and an ability to type. Pleasant office demeanor a necessity.”

Oh my. It’s a real job.

Snapping a picture with my cell phone, I give thanks to my short-lived pre-baby history of minimum-wage, part-time jobs at gas-stations and mini-marts. Customer service? No one rang up a carton of Marlboro Lights faster than me. Responsible? The Circle K condom dispenser in the men’s restroom was never empty on my watch.

Is this my sign? It sounds like a stretch. Can I really do all that? I, mean, I wasn’t exactly bred for this job, was I?

Bred for it? Ick, parent sex. There’s an early Saturday-morning memory from age ten I don’t need to recall right now.

Scratch that. It’s time to be bold and bring on the next chapter of my life.

Lord knows, I need it.

 

 

Out Now!