How to Break a Cowboy by Daire St. Denis Page A

my face again, he cocked his head to one side. “Do
I know you?”
    I cleared my throat. “Ah, no. I’m your neighbor.” I pointed
to my house. “I live right there.”
    “Oh.” He nodded slowly. “Yes.”
    Shit, fuck-a-shit! Had he seen me in the window? I’d been
watching him all weekend as the movers carried his stuff in. It was pure
curiosity, that was all, but he must have seen me. I cleared my throat. “Sorry
if I disturbed you.”
    “You didn’t disturb me,” he drawled.
    “Oh.”
    “I’m Martin.” He held out his hand.
    “I’m Claire.”
    When he took my hand in his warm, overly large one, I
sucked in an involuntary breath and then yanked my hand free. I needed to get
out of there.
    The corner of his full, sensuous lips twitched. Then he
glanced behind him and touched his fingertips to his forehead. “Where are my
manners?” Opening the door a little more, he asked, “Would you like to come in
for a drink or something?”
    I caught a glimpse of the room beyond the front door. It
was still piled with cardboard boxes and mounds of packing paper.
    I shook my head. “No. Thanks, but…ah,” I glanced back at my
place with the intention of leaving, except I just kept standing there. That’s
when I blurted out my invitation. “Would you like to come for dinner some time?”
    “Dinner? With you?”
    “With me and my husband. How about Saturday?”
    “Saturday?” A slow, leisurely smile spread across his face
as he regarded me from beneath much too long lashes. “Why not?”
    “Great.” I nodded my head as if we’d just signed a peace treaty.
“Saturday it is, then. Seven o’clock?”
    “Seven is perfect.”
    “Good-bye.”
    “Good-bye, Claire.”
    Was it my imagination or did he pause before saying my
name. And what was that pause all about? Was it a French thing? Or was it
amusement? Oh, God. The man had been laughing at me.
    Suddenly Martin’s mower conked out and the lack of sound
brought me back to the present. He opened the gas cap, filled it from a red gas
can and then yanked on the pull cord. The mower coughed but didn’t start. I
couldn’t tear my eyes away. It took four or five more pulls before the thing
started and with each tug the muscles of his arms and back danced and bulged. I
gulped my coffee and then choked as some went down the wrong pipe. Once I had
myself under control I heard the mower rumbling and saw Martin mopping his brow
while he stared up at my window.
    Could he see me through the glass? Had he sensed me
watching? No. Impossible. The sun was shining too brightly against it. From
outside he’d only see the reflection.
    Yet I swear he knew I was there.
    My heart fluttered against my sternum and I pushed myself
away from the counter and hurried down the hall. Lordy, I needed a cold shower.

 
     
     
    Sex,
Spies and Photographs
    Chapter
Two
     
    M AYBE JOHN WAS
right. Maybe I needed more things to do to fill my time. Maybe I was bored and that’s why I was obsessed with spying on the neighbor.
    But I wasn’t ready for John’s solution to my boredom. The
spare bedroom next to ours was filled with boxes of baby stuff that his sister,
Jules, had given us; hand-me-downs that she was sure we would need sometime in
the near future. Me? I wasn’t so sure.
    I’d seen my friends and Jules, seen how their lives ended
when another little life came into their family. No thanks. Not now, anyway. I
didn’t need a baby to keep me busy. Hadn’t I volunteered with the community
association as the Welcome Wagon Lady? Hadn’t I taken up pottery?  Yeah, I
sucked and all my stuff ended up being lopsided and ill-proportioned. But I loved
it, loved the feel of the slippery wet clay between my fingers, the musty, dank
smell of it: the whole experience reminded me of sex. Slippery, tactile,
delicious sex. And I knew exactly what happened to slippery, wet, delicious sex
once a baby came along. I’d heard enough complaints from my friends who were
parents.
    I spent the