kicked off the start of tax season—he was an accountant. While she knew Walter found her attractive, he also liked to pick her brain for betting advice (he spear-headed the weekly football pool at his office). When he won, he got very happy and the sex was pretty good—if she initiated (Walter wasn’t one for making the first move). When he wasn’t making money betting on his favorite sport, he was so boring he made a wedge of cheese look exciting.
He was neck-deep in IRS forms and for the past three months, she’d been flying solo.
A good thing, she reminded herself. Walter wasn’t the man for her and so she’d broken things off for good after the last Super Bowl. She didn’t want a man who only wanted her some of the time. Even more, she didn’t want a man who didn’t want her enough to make the first move. She was through initiating sex.
Hence the classes.
They’d originally been given by Dillon’s sister, Cheryl Anne, who’d been desperate to break out of her shell and do something wild and crazy with her own life. She’d succeeded for a few weeks before she’d realized that actually having sex was much more preferable than talking about it with a bunch of clueless women eager to spice up their relationships. She’d handed over her classes to Winona, the owner of the only motel in town, and had married her long-time boyfriend. Cheryl Anne was now living the American dream.
Not that Meg’s goal was to get married. Maybe. Someday. If the right man came along. Right now, however, she simply wanted to have sex with a man who really and truly wanted to have sex with her. A man who couldn’t keep his hands off her.
A man who wanted her badly enough to make the first move.
The classes would teach her how to increase her sex appeal to the point that she was irresistible. Hopefully.
Meg finished documenting her results, closed her Pleasure Manual and headed back upstairs to her bedroom closet. After careful consideration, she settled for a hot-pink shell, a frayed blue jean miniskirt with rhinestone trim and a pair of high-heeled sandals she’d picked up on her latest shopping trip to Austin. The outfit met all of her must-haves—feminine and sexy and ubertrendy—which was why it had made it into her closet in the first place. As owner of the one and only upscale boutique in town, she wanted her own personal wardrobe to reflect her business image. While she might be striking out when it came to changing everyone’s perception of her personally, professionally she was batting one thousand.
Her shop had become the go-to place for every special occasion—from proms to anniversary parties to the occasional hot date.Women sought her advice on clothes, shoes and accessories, and her shop had even been named Business of theYear three consecutive times in a rowby the Skull Creek Chamber of Commerce.
But while her shop was making the news, Meg wasn’t.
Meaning she’d yet to garner even a mention in Tilly Townsend’s infamous Hot Chicks list. The list was published every six months and featured the ten hottest bachelorettes in town. Likewise, Tilly also did a Randiest Rooster list that named the ten hottest bachelors. The list was the ultimate when it came to popularity—a who’s who of the most sought-after singles in town. The women were smart, successful, vivacious and irresistible to men. The newest version came out in exactly two weeks and Meg wanted to be on it.
Meg ignored an inkling of hopelessness and headed for the shower.
She spent the next half hour upstairs getting ready and the last fifteen minutes downstairs sucking down a Diet Coke and rereading her notes on last week’s lesson. She was seated at her table, about to get to the Understanding Your Vibrator section, when a tongue lapped at her bare thigh.
She glanced down at the black-and-gray Blue Heeler who’d pushed through the doggy door and now stood next to her. Tail wagging, tongue lolling, the animal stared up at her, a pleading look in her big brown eyes.
“Don’t even think it.” She wagged a finger at her. “You know what the vet said. Sugar isn’t good for a dog your age.” Babe, named for the infamous Babe Ruth, obviously disagreed. She wagged her way over to the pantry and stared hopefully at the closed door.
“You can’t have any,” Meg told the dog, pushing to her feet. She bypassed the pantry to retrieve a small box from a nearby cabinet. “Doc said you could have a veggie biscuit instead.” She held out the foul-smelling treat. Babe approached, took one sniff andwagged herway back over to the pantry. She nuzzled the door.
“No,” Meg said, but the dog kept pleading.
Five minutes and some serious whimpering later, Meg pulled out a box of golden cakes and fed one to the anxious dog. Babe was getting old. Sixteen to be exact, which meant she no longer had the energy to chase Frisbees or bark at Mrs. Calico’s Chihuahua next door. She’d given up chasing balls, too, and carting in the newspaper. Other than watching re-runs of Sex and the City and eating the occasional Twinkie, she had zero pleasure in her old age.
Meg fed her a second and smiled as she wolfed it down.
The dog whimpered for a third, but Meg shook her head. “Discipline, girl. It’s all about discipline.” She stuffed the box back into the pantry and closed the door.
Babe licked at Meg’s fingers for a few seconds before heading back to the den and her doggy bed, obviously satisfied for the moment.
If only Meg felt the same.
Despite the orgasm, shewas still restless.Anxious. Unfulfilled.
Because she was still every bit as invisible as she’d been way back when. That’s why she was taking carnal classes. She wanted men to notice her, to lust after her, to find her completely irresistible.
The way the women were now lusting after Dillon Cash.
She stared at the lifestyle section of the Skull Creek Gazette spread out on her kitchen table and her gaze snagged on Tilly’s weekly column—What’s Hot and What’s Not.
A picture of Dillon taken at Joe Bob’s Bar & Grill blazed back at her. He was boot scootin’ his way across the sawdust floor with Amelia Louise Lauderfield. The infamous Amelia Louise Lauderfield. Number six on Tilly’s Hot Chicks list.
Dillon and a bona fide Hot Chick.
Meg still couldn’t believe it.
One minute he’d been spending his Saturday nights holed up in his computer repair shop, and the next—a few months ago to be exact—he’d shown up in a nearby town at a local honky tonk, of all places. He’d ditched his glasses and swapped his buttondown shirt and slacks for well-worn jeans and a T-shirt. Even more, he’d traded his car, complete with seat belts and air bags, for a custom-made motorcycle and no helmet.
It hadn’t been the news of his physical transformation that had startled her so much as everyone’s response to it—every female in the Cherry Blossom Saloon had fallen all over themselves for a chance to go home with him.
Then again, word had it he’d shown up after happy hour, which meant that the liquor had been flowing. More than likely, the members of his instant fan club had been extremely drunk. On top of that, the place was out of town. The women who’d gone gaga over his new look couldn’t have been privy to his reputation.
At least that’s the conclusion she’d come to after one of her customers, Cornelia Wallace, had relayed the rumors circulating around town. She could still hear the old woman’s
