November 1991

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Jenny maneuvered her cart into the ladies’ section, shoving past overloaded rounds of sweaters and blouses. Wal-Mart always packed everything too closely together. In the sections and in the aisles, it was impossible to travel through the store unimpeded, especially late on a Saturday afternoon. It was like it was some kind of nefarious scheme they’d concocted to trap customers in the store like rats.

Usually she enjoyed shopping much more than this, but she was frazzled and tired today. She’d finished a shitty early shift at The Roost, and her feet hurt. It wasn’t even Thanksgiving yet, but she was already tired of Christmas carols—especially ‘Last Christmas.’ Man, she despised that stupid song, and she really hated the way it wormed into her head and stayed there for hours after she heard it. Seriously, if she ever went postal, she’d blame George Fucking Michael.

But it was Mrs. Turner’s birthday tomorrow, and she couldn’t let that day pass by. As usual, once she’d put her hands on a cart, she’d gotten sucked into the Wal-Mart vortex and now had probably fifty bucks’ worth of shit she didn’t need and hadn’t wanted an hour ago. And still hadn’t gotten over to the housecoats and slippers.

She was headed toward the sleepwear, but something sparkly on a round by the wall of jeans caught her eye, and she left her cart where it was and wended her way over. Oh, it was cute—a creamy mohair sweater with iridescent sequins scattered over it. She liked the wide neckline that would drop off her shoulder and show her new red bra with the wide satin straps. Victoria’s Secret—she’d never spent so much on a bra before, but it was pretty, too pretty to hide under her clothes. She felt sexy in it. She could wear this sweater and that bra to The Roost’s Christmas party, with her Guess jeans and her tall boots, and see what Brent thought about that.

Flipping through the hangers, she found a sweater marked ‘S’ and double-checked the price tag against the sewn-in tag to make sure the sizes matched. They did, and the price was okay, so she looked around for a mirror. She was reliably a Small, so she didn’t need to try it on, but she wasn’t sure about cream with her coloring. A couple of years ago, she’d had her color analyzed and was supposedly a winter—dark hair, skin tone everybody called ‘peaches and cream,’ light eyes—but she thought she looked like a corpse in white. Maybe cream, though?

There was a mirror by the accessories, so she went back to her cart and pushed her way to the other side of the ladies’ section.

She took off her coat and hung it over the side of her cart, then took the sweater off the hanger. Laying it over her t-shirt to approximate its fit on her chest, she pushed her boobs out a little and considered the look. Her hair was still up in the high ponytail she wore for work, like a spout on her head, and she wasn’t wearing much makeup.

She looked like crap. Gross.

With a sigh, holding the sweater to her chest, she pulled the elastic out and gave her head a hard shake until her hair fluffed and settled on her shoulders. Then she tried again.

Better. She shimmied her chest a little so that the sequins caught the light and reflected in the mirror. For good measure, she gave her hips a shake, too.

“Looks good,” a gruff male voice at her side pronounced.

Jenny jumped and squeaked and nearly wrenched her neck turning toward the owner of that voice while she yanked the sweater off her chest. “Huh?”

Oh God. The most gorgeous man she’d ever seen in the twenty-three years of her whole life stood right there. Look at him! Holy shit! He wore a black leather biker jacket—the kind with silver zippers, snaps, and buckles—and a plain white t-shirt under it. Dark jeans and engineer boots. No shit, it was like James Dean was standing in front of her—James Dean if he’d been well over six feet tall and had had dark hair. And broad shoulders. What was under that jacket and t-shirt? Something good, no doubt. Something real good. He was grinning at her, and his eyes—so blue, dreamy, dive-in-and-die-happy blue—twinkled.

He had four handbags hanging on one arm, and another in his hand. All were dainty, shiny bags for fancy dress.

“The sweater.” His voice rolled from his lips like his throat was equipped with a glasspack. “Looks good. I like the sparkles.”

“Uh.” Fuck, her brain had dived in and died in his blue eyes.

He chuckled—she felt the sound in her belly—and winked, then turned back to the holiday handbag display.

When he turned away, her brain revived and found her tongue. “I think the silver lamé goes best with your jacket.” Oh! Good one, Jen. Sassy but not mean. Flirty. Well done.

Those blue eyes swung back to her and brought that grin with it. “Thanks for the tip, but it’s not for me.”

“Your girlfriend? Or wife?” She blushed—could she have been more obvious?

Clearly not. Tall, Dark, and Dean’s grin sharpened, and his eyes gleamed. “My...niece, I guess. It’s her birthday. Fourteen.”

“Oh, cool. Did she ask for a bag like that?” Was that a good question? She definitely didn’t want to stop talking, but she didn’t want to be rude and put him off, either. He was showing possibly some interest, and she was fairly certain a sign saying COME ON IN WE’RE OPEN flashed over her head.

“Nah. But she likes to dress fancy, and she likes purses. Since she was little, she’s always carrying a different one around every time I see her, hooked on her arm like a grand old lady.” His tone and expression took on a different aspect, sweet instead of sly. He loved this girl he was talking about. Enough to have noticed her little purses. He did not look like a man with a vast knowledge of, or interest in, women’s accessories.

Suddenly, out of the freaking blue, she imagined this guy with a little girl in his arms, resting on his hip, her arms locked around his neck. He’d be a good father, she was sure of it.

Cripes. Two months without sex and her hormones were on red alert.

He held his arm out, with the handbags dangling from it. “Which one d’you think is best?”

Jenny stepped closer, so that his arm crossed before her and his body was at her side. Up close, he was almost imposingly tall—maybe six-two, six-three. Nearly a foot taller than her five-four. She could smell him—something rich and deep. Not cologne, but alluring in a similar way. Maybe just his leather and his soap. She took a deep breath through her nose, trying to be subtle about it.

Keeping her voice and her body steady and assured, she studied the different bags. “She’s fourteen?”

“Yep.” Now that she was closer, he’d dropped his voice so that it was almost a caress over her ear.

“Favorite color?” One of the bags was bright red. Another was gold sequins. Then the silver lamé, a black beaded clutch on a satin cord, and a black satin drawstring sac with a red crystal heart charm the size of a half-dollar coin.

“Uh...blue, maybe? She’s a redhead, if that helps.”

She lifted the satin sac. “This one. It’s versatile, and she’ll like the charm. She could take it off the cord and wear it as a pendant if she wants—if you were into it, you could get her a chain, too, so she could do just that.”

He furrowed his brow at the bag. “I don’t know. Her old man would gut me like a fish if I gave his fourteen-year-old daughter a heart necklace. No matter what I meant by it.”

“Ah. Good point. Well...” she turned to the display and considered the other bags. There was a long hook full of those satin sacs, all with different crystal charms. One had a pink flower. “How about this one? What are her thoughts on pink?”

“I think she’s good with pink.” He tried to work the other sacs off the hook while his arm was still burdened with the bags they’d rejected. Jenny moved in to help him, and his hands and hers got tangled up. Just for a second, just long enough for his rough fingertips to skim her knuckles. Again, her belly fluttered like he’d touched her there.

They got the bags sorted out so that those he didn’t want were back in fairly neat assembly on the display, and he had the one with the pink flower charm.

“Thanks for your help.” His smile had turned sly again, but he made no more move.

Just ‘thank you.’

Jenny had never made a move on a man in her life. She wouldn’t know how to begin. Always, she waited for the man to ask her out, or ask for her number, or start the conversation. It was a small miracle that she’d comported herself with this guy as competently as she had.

“Um. Okay. Well, I hope she likes it. Have a good night.”

When he tipped an imaginary hat at her and turned away, Jenny went to her cart and pushed it to the sleepwear, trying to ignore the disappointed bubble in her belly. Mrs. Turner liked matching housecoats and slippers, and she loved that Jenny always bought her a new set for her birthday. That was why she’d come shopping, not to pick up men.

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~oOo~

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She’d kept her eyes peeled while she’d been in the store and especially as she was checking out, but he must have checked out as soon as he’d had his purse, because she hadn’t seen him again.

She scanned the parking lot, too. It had gone dark while she’d been shopping, so she didn’t have much hope. But then, parked in a striped space under a light standard, centered in the halo of light, was a big, shiny black Harley. It totally looked like a bike James Dean would ride—the actual James Dean or her new personal favorite version. She supposed there could have been another biker in Wal-Mart. Tulsa wasn’t exactly hostile to bikers; they even had their own MC in town, and most people she knew thought they were decent guys. Actually, she didn’t even know if he was a biker. He’d been wearing that jacket, but that could have been a style choice.

Still, a girl could hope.

Moving as slowly as was reasonable, she made her way to her Escort and opened the hatch. She carefully placed each blue sack inside, and the new tube of giftwrap, and closed the hatch. Then to the cart corral, like a bipedal sloth.

When she turned back, out of ways to delay, there was a tall, dark form leaning on the rear fender of her car.

Oh, praise Jesus and all his disciples.

She walked straight toward him, at a significantly more purposeful pace. When she was close enough, he held out his hand, and she took it without even thinking about whether it was smart to do so.

Big and warm, rough and hard. This was a man who worked with his hands.

“Didn’t get your name.”

He pulled her close and turned, pushing her back to the side of her car, then leaned in, gripping the roof and framing her between his arms. He was wearing more leather—a vest over his jacket. There were a couple of white strips patched to his chest. It was too dark to read them, but she understood. He was more than a biker—he was an actual Brazen Bull.

He’d asked for her name. “Jenny.” She whispered it, afraid to break the spell.

“Hi, Jenny. I’m Maverick.”

“Maverick?” She couldn’t trust her hearing or any other bodily function just then, but that hadn’t sounded like a name. Except for Tom Cruise in Top Gun.

“Yep. You got a fella?”

She shook her head, and he smiled.

“Been thinkin’ about kissing you since I saw you dancing around in that sweater. What d’you think about that?”

Jenny thought it was one of the better ideas in the history of man. Right up there with flight. And Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.

She nodded, and he bent his head to hers.

Oh yeah. Absolutely brilliant idea.

He didn’t have a beard, but his face was rough with the day’s growth. That fine sandpaper contrasted starkly with the warm velvet of his lips and made Jenny’s nerves stretch out. He kept his tongue to himself, let his lips caress hers until she felt greedy for more. She was surrounded by him, drowning in the scent and heat of him, and she opened her mouth as much to breathe as to ask for his tongue.

When she touched her tongue to his lip, his chuckling breath stuttered across her cheek. He shifted, no longer leaning his weight on his hands, and wrapped his arms around her, sliding under her open coat. The move brought her body firmly to his chest—broad and hard as a brick wall—and she was dwarfed and overwhelmed. As his tongue pushed into her mouth, he leaned forward, forcing her to bend backward, so far that she had to trust him to hold onto her so she wouldn’t fall.

He held on, and she didn’t fall, not even when her heart raced so hard she thought she’d pass out.

After a glorious, breathtaking, impossibly brief eternity, he pulled back and brought her up. As if he knew that her knees were weak, he held her tightly for another few seconds, until she could support her own weight.

When she opened her eyes, he was smiling slyly down at her. “I gotta go, but I think I’m gonna need your number, Jenny.”

She nodded. He let her go and rooted inside his vest. He pulled out a felt-tip pen, handed it to her, and held his hand out flat, palm up. Her hand shook as she took the cap off the pen and wrote the number of The Roost across his callused skin.

“This is where I work. You can reach me there, or leave a message.” She couldn’t risk him calling home when she wasn’t there.

He cocked a curious look at her but didn’t ask any questions. While she watched, he pursed his lips and blew over the ink. Then he caught her chin in his other hand and bent his head—oh yay! He was going to kiss her again.

“I hope you work a lot. ‘Cuz I’m gonna be in touch real soon.” He laid his lips on hers for the space of a heartbeat, and then he stepped away.

“You have a good night, Jenny.”

“Thanks. You, too.” Ugh, how lame.

With another sly grin, he turned and walked—no saunter, no strut, just a steady, confident stride—to that shiny black Harley. Jenny stood and watched him pull a pair of gloves on, mount his bike, and fire the engine up. He pulled off, sending her a jaunty salute as he rolled by.

She watched until he turned out of the lot. Then the spell broke, and she was standing on a Wal-Mart parking lot, alone in the cold.

But a sexy man called Maverick had just kissed her practically unconscious and asked for her number. She touched her fingers to her swollen lips and smiled.