Mr. Slurpee.
And I’m not talking about the drink.No offense, Mom.I’m thirsting for him, and I didn’t even get his name.
I was too busy being dumbfounded by his aqua eyes. My IQ plummeting, thunderstruck by his beefy muscles. I mean, who can brush their hair with biceps like that? Maybe it was the ink on his neck. It read, “No mercy,” when all I could think wasMercy me.
Or was it the way his hulking legs won the battle against his worn jeans? Could’ve been his backward ball cap, all cute and hiding his short brown cropped hair. Like he’s military.Or an assassin. I clocked the bulge under his zipperandunder his tight green T-shirt.
He was packing.
A 9mm.
And a nine incher.
A girl can dream.
But that wasn’t it. Though that’s more than enough.
No, it was the way he was goofy. That Slurpee and asshole line? He blushed. He’s as slick as sandpaper, but he’s so gorgeous, it only makes him hotter. Especially when he loves Slurpees, too, and he admired my choice, calling it “classic.”
It was a sign, right?
The ultimate meet-cute?
It was so romantic, I wanted to slurp him up. Like, finally, let myself open up, have fun, and flirt.
I never do it with the guys at work or the locals around here. Hell, no. I’m too guarded, and a few are too pervy.
So when Mr. Slurpee walked into my little life, I rolled the dice.
And… craps.
Or is that when you win?
I don’t know because I didn’t win. I never win. I don’t know how to play The Love Game, being all sexy and cute. I’m too awkward. I said too much and got too emotional too quickly, mentioning my mom in the past tense, and “bye-bye, Mr. Slurpee.”
At least he bought me one.
It’s the closest thing I’ve had to a date. Ever. Not exaggerating. I’ve never been on one.
If I weren’t so into dirt—not the pornographic kind—I’m talking soil, samples, and testing. I’m talking science. I like it too much; otherwise, I’d make a great nun. But they don’t hand out hiking boots with nun’s habits, so forget it.
Besides, I think I’d really love sex.
A lot.
If I ever get to have it more than once.
Parking in front of my tiny cabin, I stomp on the emergency brake. I can’t afford for my truck to roll. I parked the patrol SUV at the ranger station and drove my trusty piece of shit home. I call her Anita Bath because she’s like me, constantly adorned with dirt.
Grabbing my Slurpee, I reach across and snag my pack. The sun hasn’t set. I still have time to quietly slurp on my porch, admiring the dogwoods blooming on the mountainside.
But…
Crunching gravel in the lot where I’m parked lifts my eyes. A fancy black Ram Big Horn truck stops in front of the cabin beside mine.
These tiny cabins are perched in a row on the mountainside. Mostly, tourists rent them for the weekends. Usually, I’m up here on the weekdays by myself.
But not tonight.
