Redheaded Stranger: A Cowboy Love Story (Bluebonnet, Texas) by Amie Stuart Page B

think I was five. My how time flies.
    Growing up, I wanted to be a lawyer and a psychologist-obviously I've seen the light, though to be honest, I've never settled down into any career until I started writing. I've worked fast food, as a receptionist, an office manager (in a daycare that gets me bonus points), delivered pizza, did a stint at Wally World as a cashier, and was a hairdresser for five years (oh the stories I could tell). And that's just the stuff I got paid to do! These days I file stuff, answer phones and tweak websites to put food on the table—this is important when you have a kid in college—and write in my spare time.
    I figure it was all training for the writing gig. That and all those Barbara Cartland romances I cut my teeth on.
    I don't drink beer (why would I when God gave us Vodka?) and I don't like football, but don't tell the Powers that Be or they might revoke my Texas Citizenship. And I say y'all but never y'all all, cause that's just wrong.
    Last but not least, I'm a storyteller and a writer, and I'm here to entertain you.

1 .  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.  Damnit, 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 they 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 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 was a total hottie.
    And one last bra. A stuck bra. I tugged and wiggled but couldn’t free the tiny hanger that was 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, and sun bleached blonde 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 that 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’m cursed. 
    I blew a lock of dark hair out of my eyes, which reminded me of just how bad I looked.  No makeup, scarf covering my shaggy short hair, an old “Property of Drew Hartford” t-shirt and cut-off, homemade 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