Page 8 of Cry, Little Dove

“Don’t fret now. I see the problem,” he says and lets me go, gesturing to the vending machine. “If you’d kindly step aside, I’ll give it a try.”

Yes, right. I’m still pressed up against this hot cowboy, and he’s not making me do it anymore. This is all me.

I clear my throat and move away. “Be my guest,” I choke out.

Wow, a full sentence! Congratulations, Erica.

His attention shifts to the machine, giving me a chance to stare at him again while he’s distracted.

Raven-black curls with a handful of stray greys stick out from under his hat, and he has wide shoulders and thick upper arms. A broad back. His strong thighs are covered by slate jeans, and he wears black cowboy boots.

Even through his clothes I can tell that he’s muscular, but not like those steroid-jacked gym bros. I hate those. He definitely works out, but he looks more as if he does a lot of heavy lifting, andthatlook I can get behind. Or rather under. Or in front, on all fours with him behind me—

Calm down, I scold myself, but he’s the ideal candidate for that one item on my bucket list.Hooking up with a hot stranger.

“Aw, damn,” he curses under his breath before addressing me. “This might get a lil loud.”

“What—”

His fist pummels the side of the machine until the chips drop and a big, fat dent warps the metal. He reaches into the chute and offers the bag to me. The single serving size looks comically small in his hand.

“Here you go.”

“Thank you.” I take it, flashing him a smile.

His gaze drags from my lips over my breasts to my waist and my hips. Then down my thighs and my bare legs and I swear I can feel it on my skin like a trail of lava.

“Excuse my asking, but do you always dress up like this to get cheap snacks from an old vending machine in a dingy motel parking lot?” he asks, smirking. “Not that I’m complaining. You’re a damn sight for sore eyes.”

I laugh. “Only when I think I’m going to run into hot cowboys.”

He raises a brow as he tips his hat back and tuts. “I hate to disappoint you, but I ain’t a cowboy.”

“Oh?”

“All this…” He gestures at himself. “It’s my dad’s influence and a way to honor him, I guess. The hat belonged to him. I inherited a whole collection. Belts, boots, and ties, too.” He shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “My dad grew up on a ranch, and let me tell you, that man had style with a capital S. My mother would be spinning in her grave if she saw me now, though.”

“Why’s that?” I ask.

My question catches him off guard, and frankly, me too. Yikes, can I get any more inappropriate? I just met this guy and I’m already asking about his family history? I should’ve stuck with stammering instead of whateverthisis.

His head cocks, eyes rounding. He twists the tip of his boot, bits of gravel grinding on the concrete, and his lips part without a sound, like he’s trying to figure out if he should answer.

“My mother was a proper English lady. She came to Texas for work and fell for my dad,” he says, speaking faster and faster. “But like often, the quirks we find attractive in the beginning end up annoying us. For her, that was my dad’s accent. His looks. What seemed charming at the start turned into an embarrassment for her. Especially ‘round her high-society friends. That’s why she made sure I dressed well, spokeproperly, and insisted I called her Charlotte instead of mom. She barely tolerated being addressed as mother.”

An awkward buzz hangs in the air, and I fidget with the packet of chips. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have asked something so personal. I don’t know what came over me,” I say with an apologetic smile.

“Naw, it’s my fault for bringing her up in the first place. I’m probably boring you with my rambling. Not sure why I told you any of it,” he responds, rubbing over the back of his neck, cheeks darkening. “You were making polite small talk and I’m oversharing like hell. Nobody wants to hear a stranger’s family troubles, right?”

My heart squeezes. “I wanted to know or I wouldn’t have asked.”

Butwhydo I want to know more about him? What does it matter to me?

He favors me with another, softer smile, and butterflies surge in my belly. He’s not just hot. He’s sincere, too. Sweet. Vulnerable.

The only men I slept with were a handful of boyfriends. One-night stands aren’t my thing, but I have this one chance before I end it all, and I never thought I’d find someone like him in this town. Letting the opportunity pass me by would be such a waste.

“You see, I don’t usually do this…” I attempt to hide my nervousness in a giggle. “But it’s a long night and I’m a little lonely. I have a room here—uh, number one back there—and I wondered if you’d like to… you know…”

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