she did miss snuggling. But she doubted she’d find that on a site called Type-A-Businessmen.com.
“They’re all professionals,” her mom said as if that would help.
“Brantley was a professional,” Sophie pointed out. A lawyer. On paper he was perfect for her, but Sophie hadn’t been able to marry the paper.
Her mother hesitated, no doubt thinking up a comeback. “Well these are professionals who haven’t jilted anyone.”
Sophie had no idea if that was actually in the bios or if her mother was just making that up to get her to take that first step into Hell.
“There are plenty of other sites,” Mila piped up. To prove that, she promptly showed Sophie the page for Cowboy-Match.com.
After one glance, Sophie concluded that not all cowboys were hot. Some were downright ugly and one had what appeared to be a lump of chewing tobacco in his jaw, complete with brown spittle on his chin.
“You like cowboys,” Mila added, frowning at the spittle guy.
Sophie did. When she was looking at shirtless pictures of them on the internet. She liked the snug jeans, boots and hats. She liked the way chaps framed their junk. But those cowboys who’d posed for man candy pictures probably didn’t need dating sites.
“How about this one?” Her mother pulled up another site. “This one is Well-Endowed-Hunks.com.”
Both Mila and Sophie turned to her mother, giving her blank stares.
“What?” Belle protested. “There’s nothing wrong with a man being large in that area.” She pointed to her own nether region.
So, her mother did know what it meant. Sophie had considered that maybe she thought that meant they’d inherited a lot of money.
You couldn’t always tell if her mother was clued into reality or not. She looked prim and proper as if she should be on one of those TV shows from the sixties, the ones where the moms wore high heels to do housework. Not a hair out of place. Lipstick was a necessity, and she wore hard padded bras that could bruise you when she gave you a hug.
“Well, if you don’t want a large endowment,” Belle went on, “I’ll look for a site for men with small weenies.”
Sophie groaned. “Don’t. Please don’t. In fact, you both need to leave so I can get some work done. Mila, shouldn’t you be at the bookstore?”
“It doesn’t open for another hour.”
Sophie groaned again. “Well, I need you both to leave. I have to order a machine to jack off the bulls. After that, I have to order some sperm.” If she’d had her coffee, Sophie was certain she would have phrased that better. Supplies for the ranch would have sufficed.
The color blanched from her mother’s face. Not a pretty sight since that only made her bright red lipstick glare like a baboon’s butt. “God, Sophie, you’re not thinking of artificial insemination.”
She wanted to groan again, but her throat was getting sore. “No. It’s bull semen for all those cows that were delivered yesterday. Garrett wanted the machine so the hands could, well, get some from the bulls we already have. But it apparently won’t be enough so I have to buy more. And I really do need to get it ordered this morning to stop the cows and Garrett from getting testy.”
Sophie might as well have been talking to her coffee because once her mother got back her color she just continued advancing into those levels of Hell.
“Here’s one I bookmarked. NicheDating.org, and you put in exactly what you want, and it matches you with your dream guy.”
Sophie laughed and didn’t bother to take the sarcasm out of it. She drank some more of her coffee and started filling out the sperm order, hoping it would prompt her best friend and mother to leave. It didn’t.
“Go ahead,” her mother insisted. “Tell me your dream man, and I’ll type it in for you.”
“Tall,” Mila answered for her. “And dark hair.” She stopped, snapped her fingers. “What about Shane Whitlock, the hand who used to work here? He owns his own ranch now near Bulverde, and I’m pretty sure he’s single.”
Shane. The guy Sophie had had a semicrush on in middle school. Because her attention had turned to Brantley in tenth grade, the crush hadn’t led to anything, and it wouldn’t now.
“I’ll look up his number for you.” Mila opened another browser screen and got started on that.
“I don’t want Shane’s number,” Sophie said. “And I don’t want my dream guy from Niche.com.”
They didn’t listen so Sophie ignored them, too, and got busy on the paperwork. Hard to tune out their comments, though.
Her mother: “You really should get serious about this. You’re only weeks away from your thirtieth birthday.”
Mila: “You’re not like me. You like having a man in your life.”
Her mother: “And I’ll never get grandchildren if you stay a virgin like Mila.”
Mila was indeed a virgin, but Sophie didn’t tell her mom that she’d lost her virginity when she was eighteen. Not to Brantley, either. They’d just broken up for the umpteenth time, and Sophie had met a bull rider in San Antonio. Lucky McCord. She had some sweet memories of him, but even if she’d wanted to reconnect with him, she couldn’t because she heard he’d gotten married.
“If these dating sites are so great,” Sophie argued, “then why haven’t the two of you used them? Mom, you’ve been a widow for ten years, and Mila, you could certainly find that special someone you’ve been looking for on a site called NicheDating.org.”
Her mother: “I don’t want another man. Your father was more than enough for me.”
Which could be taken several ways since her father could be an overbearing control freak. He was still controlling them in a way with letters he’d written and had arranged to be opened after his death. Heck, he’d even left her mother appointment calendars with reminders of birthdays, to schedule physicals, etc.
Mila: “I’m not looking for a man.”
Oh, yes, she was. But she was looking for Mr. Special.
Sophie wouldn’t bring it up in front of her mother, but Mila was obsessed with a BDSM Fifty Shades of Grey guy and wanted that kind of experience for her first lover. Sophie had figured her friend would give up by now, but the obsession was hanging on a little longer than her previous obsessions with Mr. Darcy, Captain Jack and assorted The Lord of the Rings characters.
Mila had somewhat eclectic tastes when it came to her fantasies.
“Seeing someone will help you get over Brantley,” Mila said, obviously moving this conversation back to her.
“I am over Brantley,” Sophie insisted.
But they ignored her again.
Her mother: “People feel sorry for you. I feel sorry for you.”
Sophie
