Page 1 of Mother Clucker
1
Heather
Yes. I really was pumping gas at eight in the morning on a Saturday.
Why?
Because apparently I had no life. That’s why.
With a sigh, I slammed the door of my hybrid and squinted through the early morning glare at the pump, my credit card in my hand.
Somehow in my caffeine-deprived state I found the credit card slot. I’d only had one quick small cup at home. Not my usual three or more daily. Yes, that was probably too much coffee. Don’t judge me.
I shoved my credit card in and glanced toward the building. What were the chances they had decent coffee inside?
As I debated the risks versus the rewards of gas station coffee, I glanced back at the pump.
The glare on the display made it nearly impossible to read the words on the tiny screen. I shaded it with my hand and finally made out the dark text against the greenish screen . . . and let out a huff after reading the message.
Please Pay Inside.
Lovely. Like it or not, it looked like I was going in. But on the bright side, I could scope out the coffee situation while I was in there and decide if I wanted to risk it or try to find a Starbucks on my way.
I grabbed my purse from the passenger seat and tugged my keys out of the ignition.
After barely a second’s hesitation, I clicked the key fob and locked the car’s doors. I had my suitcase inside and my laptop. And darn, I’d forgotten my cell phone was still in the vent holder plugged into the car charger with the GPS app running. Too much to risk getting stolen if I left the car unlocked.
Annoyed I had to go in at all, I headed for the building. Next car I bought was going to be totally electric, because pumping gas for my current hybrid, though infrequent, was still too much of a pain to deal with.
I flung open the door in my annoyance and stomped inside.
“A hundred bucks on pump number eight, please.” The deep sultry voice with what sounded like a Texas twang in it stopped my internal rant just inside the entrance.
I swung my head toward the counter and saw something I imagined people didn’t see very often here in Los Angeles County. A pair of Levi’s and at the end of those oh so long legs were—be still my western-romance-novel-loving heart—honest to goodness cowboy boots.
When I could get my gaze up from his intriguing denim-clad butt, I took the time to appreciate what was under the fitted shirt tucked in at the waist made narrower by the thick brown leather belt he wore.
Those broad shoulders . . . They made me want to run my hands up his arms and down his back to feel if his muscles were as hard as I imagined they would be.
Hard. I bet lots of parts of him could be real hard—and jeez. What was I thinking?
I should have packed my vibrator. That’s what I was thinking.
I barely registered the tinkling of the bell behind me. It wasn’t until I heard, “Excuse me,” that I turned around and realized I was blocking the doorway.
The woman behind me looked annoyed. Too bad. I was having a moment here with my cowboy fantasy. Times like this came too few and far between in my life.
I apologized anyway. “Sorry.”
That’s when he turned. He saw me and smiled. A smile that reached all the way up to his hazel eyes.
My pulse racing, I smiled back and moved toward the counter because I wasn’t letting the snotty woman who’d just walked in get in line in front of me. Not when I could be right up behind Tex. Up close and personal.
“Here you go. Sign please.”
He turned back toward the counter so the clerk could hand him back his card. Though not before I appreciated his handsome tanned face and the light brown stubble on his chin that matched his sun-bleached brown hair. He signed the screen and of course I noticed his big strong work-roughened hands. Because of course a man like that wouldn’t have smooth soft hands. No way.
But the end of the transaction meant the end of our encounter. He turned and after a small nod in my direction that nearly made my knees weak, he was gone.
