Free The Big Girl and Cowboy Show - An Alpha Cowboy Erotic Romance by Cleo Page Page A

scare me,” I said. “I just wasn’t expecting someone to be standing so close. Or for someone to hijack my punch line, for that matter.”
    “Well,” he cocked the dark brown eyebrow over his left eye and tilted his hat back slightly, “it would seem to me that stealing some of your thunder on that fine joke of yours is just about the smartest thing I’ve done in quite some time.” As he spoke he, noticeably, looked me up and down in the same deliberate manner that he deftly slid that line out of his mouth. It wasn’t uncomfortable though. Neither thing was, actually. Not the look or the line. It was quite the opposite really. Both things were delivered in such a way that told me this man not only appreciated a woman, but appreciated a woman who was a whole lotta woman.
    It was then that creepy-moustache-guy behind the counter decided he’d watched the Big Girl and Cowboy Show for long enough. In a voice that could not have been more monotone if he was actually, literally, the embodiment of a dial tone, he quite handily burst the bubble of discovery we had just found ourselves in with a “What kind of donuts would you like?”
    “Oh, right . . . donuts,” I half-heartedly muttered. Donuts were no longer nearly as exciting as they had been a couple of minutes ago. “I’ll have a double chocolate and a cherry-filled, please.”
    “Anything for you?” mumbled creepy-moustache-guy, with a barely perceptible nod of his head toward my new favorite cowboy. Granted, I had no other cowboys on any kind of favorites list—I had no lists at all for that matter—but if I had, this guy would have just rocketed to the top at a staggering pace.
    “My order is separate, thanks. We’re not . . .” began the cowboy, but I cut him off.
    “No, no. Go ahead. It’s on me.” As I spoke, the voice in my head silently, but lasciviously, suggested that he too, could be on me without the slightest objection from me. My cheeky gaze up at his deep brown eyes, however, most certainly betrayed my quiet inside voice and must have surely let on that I was rapidly approaching a state that was less than pure.
    “Why thank you . . .” he trailed off, clearly waiting for me to fill in the blank with my name.
    “Connor,” I said. “Connor Lyall.”
    He dutifully ordered a large black coffee, but quickly turned his attention back to me. “Connor Lyall, it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”
    “Well, I do declare!” I hit him with my best Scarlett O’Hara, which admittedly wasn’t great, and fanned myself as daintily as one is able to with a bag of donuts. “And you, fine sir? Do you have a name or do people just call you cowboy?”
    As I handed a five-dollar bill to, by this point, the rather disconcerting creepy-moustache-guy, and mumbled keep the change —a monotone thank you emanated from behind the counter as we turned and walked away—the cowboy let out another of his knee-wobbling, honeypot-filling bass line chuckles and said, “Yes ma’am, I do have a name. And no, it isn’t cowboy. My name is Randall Hemming, but my friends, and you may also, if you wish, call me Randy.” My goodness, he certainly does speak cowboy well.
    Well, by now he most definitely wasn’t the only one you could call randy ! He had a way about him that I couldn’t quite put my finger on yet, but I was certainly hoping I would get a chance to. Put my finger on him, that is. And more.
    “It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Randall,” I replied. My eyes were firmly locked on his, and I could tell that he appreciated my choice to use the long form of his name by the slight curl at the corner of his lips. Randy was cute, but I liked the sound of his name unabridged.
    While Randall and I had been introducing ourselves to each other, a young man had entered the coffee shop and positioned himself just behind and to the right of Randall. “Excuse me, Mr. Hemming. Sorry to interrupt. You’re going to be late for your three o’clock if we