Yeah, real convincing there, Gwen. Keep it up and maybe he’ll kiss your boo-boos.
“You look anything but fine. Let me move my truck. I’m not satisfied that you’re uninjured.” He peered around the big red Dodge Ram and grunted when he saw what she’d been pointing at. “Go sit, and I’ll be right there.”
Once she was past the lane of traffic in the parking lot, he released her elbow and hurried back to his truck. He probably wished that he could just head on to whatever task he’d been about before he’d nearly flattened her with that big-ass truck.
Why do men drive trucks like that? So damned high you practically need a rope ladder to climb in. They must be making up for little bitty dicks.
She noticed that he didn’t seem to expend any effort getting back into the vehicle, but then again he was a freaking giant. She walked to her truck thinking that he had to be at least six feet six inches tall—
“Oh, fuck a duck!”
She stood there on the damp asphalt, staring at a flat tire on her trailer. Another one! Damn it!
There was a time, early in her barrel racing career, when she would’ve approached this situation with a sense of adventure. She’d learned early on to be well prepared, self-sufficient, and that whining did no good. She had spares. She had hands, and tools. She could fix this.
But damn it, this is the third time in as many days I’ve had to change a flat on that trailer!
She’d misplaced her leather work gloves somewhere in Colorado after the first tire change, so her hands were like hamburger meat from handling the second tire change in the cold and ice somewhere on the roads in New Mexico. Top that off with having to patch a radiator hose and fiddle with a windshield wiper blade that kept freezing up. Her hands didn’t look like ladies’ hands. In fact they even looked rough for a man’s hands.
My life sucks! I need a break, and a nap!
At least she’d made it to Divine, where she had friends. She reached in her coat pocket for her phone and recalled that she’d misplaced it and still hadn’t found it. She was hopeful that it was either in the small bunk area of her trailer, or that it was under the seat in the truck cab. She hadn’t been able to find it after her last rest stop in Ozona.
She cradled her head in her hands and plopped down on the fender of the trailer as emotional and physical exhaustion caught up with her. Closing her eyes made her dizzy so she reopened them. She heard a door thump in the distance and then rapid footsteps approaching.
“Hey, Elmer Fudd. Were you hunting wabbits?”
Hardy-har-har. That’s so original.
She knew it was the enormous cowboy and had a feeling he wouldn’t let her get away with ignoring him. He stood in front of her, his stance wide and confident as he waited.
She looked up, and up, and up, until she finally made eye contact with him. His cocky grin irritated her for some reason and the twinkle in his eyes…what was it about his chocolaty brown eyes that disarmed her? She should be pissed. He could’ve seriously injured her and now he wanted to be cute?
“Don’t insult my hat. My grandpa gave it to me before he died. Where I’ve come from, I needed it. I don’t take kindly to hypothermia…or to rude cowboys.”
He made a sympathetic sound and squatted down in front of her, his eyes still twinkling and his lower lip pooched out. “I’m sorry, Elmer. Let’s see your boo-boo.” He held out his hands but didn’t touch her again. She looked down and suddenly gulped.
Even squatting, he was at eye level with her sitting on the trailer fender. In that position she had a pretty good guess that he was not making up for lack of manhood by driving that big-ass truck. It looked like the cock fairy had taken kindly to him and tapped him three or four times.
She bit her lip. Dayum!
The cowboy cocked his head and caught her eye. “Hey, Elmer? Take off your coat and let’s see that elbow. You may need an X-ray.”
“I doubt that, cowboy. And my name isn’t Elmer.”
His craggy face broke into a mischievous smile. “I was hoping it wasn’t.”
He finally took the collar of her coat and pulled on it until she relented and let him slide her arm out of the sleeve. She pulled back a little, realizing that she hadn’t had a shower that morning and she probably smelled bad. She’d cleaned up, but the rest stop she’d pulled into had only had basic facilities. Where’s a Buc-ee’s when I need one?
He gently pulled her sweater sleeve up and brushed his leathery fingertips over the slightly inflamed area over her elbow joint. “Doesn’t look too bad but you may want to ice it, Elmer.”
She took in a breath, not realizing she’d been holding it while he’d stroked her skin, and muttered, “My name is not Elmer.”