After a tipsy and raucous round of Matraca Berg's "Back in the Saddle," Lynette excused herself to find the powder room. All that laughing and singing had left her breathless and made a break necessary. On her way back to Betti and the girls, she ran right into a tall, lanky cowboy who turned and stepped in her path. As she looked up, the apology died on her lips. Then she was staring. She knew she was staring, but couldn't seem to help herself.

He was beautiful. Blonde, deeply tanned, with a chiseled jaw, his starched jeans and plaid shirt accentuated the rest of his assets. Of which he had plenty. He could indeed have thrown her in his pickup truck and right then, she wouldn't have cared. She took it all in with an unabashed sigh.

"Excuse me." He gave her a dimpled grin.

She stood there like an idiot, a smile tickling the corners of her mouth. He could have stepped straight from the pages of a western by Joan Johnson. Her heart skipped a few beats as she turned away, her cheeks suddenly hot. For heaven's sake. He looked almost young enough to be my son. If she had one.

Lynette gave herself a mental shake and turned back toward the table only to stop at a tug on her shirtsleeve. Mr. Dimples gave her a lazy once over. Thank goodness the dancehall isn't well lit.

"Great dimples," she thought, realizing too late that she'd thought out loud. She prayed for the impossible. For an earthquake. The next ice age. That he hadn't read her lips. But there was no such relief.

He mouthed a thank you and blatantly looked her over again, but never let go of her arm. As if he might be interested? Surely not.

"Wanna dance?"

Her mouth moved, but no reply came out. Heavens, he was beautiful. Even better looking than Betti's husband, Ty, and that was saying a lot. Her head spinning from a combination of heat, alcohol and embarrassment, she took a deep breath and tried again. "I can't dance." How pathetic. She should have just said, "No, thank you."

"It's a slow song." He quirked one dark blond eyebrow, then graced her with that wicked, heart-stopping grin again. "You could at least shine my buckle."

Lynette glanced down at his waist, then blushed even harder when he winked at her. Gawd! I looked at his crotch and he knows it!

"I might step on your feet." She shrugged apologetically.

"I'm wearing boots," he countered.

He really was cute and had gone to the trouble of asking. What would it hurt? She could be brave just this once; she'd steal a page from Bad Betti's book. Taking a deep breath, she nodded. "Sure, okay."

Out on the crowded dance floor, Dimples pulled her close and leaned down to whisper in her ear. "Relax."

His voice floated across her skin like a leaf in free fall, distracting her. "What?"

"Relax." His sky-blue eyes, accentuated by thick sooty lashes, crinkled at the corners when he smiled. She liked that. It gave him character, and assured her he was older than she'd first thought.

One hand on his shoulders, the other held in his firm, smooth grip, Lynette swayed to the song, too distracted by the warm male heat of him and the muscles rippling under her fingertips. Her tongue was glued so firmly to the roof of her mouth, she couldn't even seem to ask his name, and as close as he held her, he apparently had every intention of having his buckle polished. If only she were twenty years younger. Or at least ten.

Fairies danced 'round a fire in the pit of her belly and her nipples puckered under her cashmere sweater. Embarrassed at her body's reaction, she worried he'd feel them through his shirt. Lynette snuck another look at him from under her lashes and licked her lips.

His curved into a smile. Could he read her mind? The knowing look in those blue orbs spoke volumes. He looked amused, but not like he was laughing at her. She'd lay odds he knew his way around a woman, despite his youth. And he was probably much too young for her.

All too soon the song ended, and Lynette reluctantly pulled away.

"One more?" he asked, a blonde eyebrow quirked.

She shyly nodded as the lyrics to "Strawberry Wine" drifted through her head, but at that moment, she couldn't remember being seventeen, and didn't really care. She was too intent on the smell of his aftershave as he pulled her back into his arms. She'd forgotten how much she missed the smell of a man and inhaled deeply. The light masculine scent reminded her of watching her ex-husband, Robert, shave in the early days of their marriage. "What's your name?"

"Jon."

"I'm Lynette." She was enchanted. His lips looked soft, and sensual ... and soft. She watched his mouth move. She wanted to touch them. Men shouldn't have lips like that. They made her want to snuggle close and pucker up.

"That's very pretty." Jon's voice was deep and smoky, like a good Cuban cigar. Lynette did love the smoky sweet aroma of a good cigar burning. Odd for a woman, but true.

"Thank you." He had such a nice solid chest. She wanted to lean into it and close her eyes. Maybe that last Sloe Screw Betti had talked her into had been a bad idea.

"Are you a tourist?"

She shook her head, then blinked to clear her vision. "I just moved here."

"From where? I detect a little peach in that drawl." There went that eyebrow again.

"Savannah originally, but Conroe most recently. Over the other side of Houston." Her southern accent came through loud and clear.

Or was that slur?

"Are you all right?" He frowned even as his arm tightened protectively, around her waist.

"I'm a little warm is all. Maybe ... maybe I should sit down." As much as she needed to sit, Lynette wasn't sure if it was from the heat, the drinks, or him.

With a nod of understanding, Jon gently guided her off the dance floor. He ignored her pointing and instead of returning her to Betti, guided her through the crowd to the beer garden. The evening had cooled off nicely, and despite the late hour, twilight had barely deepened to full dark as he led her down paths lit by twinkling lights until he found a secluded bench and sat.

"Better?" he murmured, keeping his arm around her.

"Much, thank you. I'm not used to this." Lynette forced herself to perch on the end of the seat and try to act ladylike, despite a case of light-headedness. It wasn't easy when her eyes kept wanting to cross.

"Used to what?"

"Bars. Betti said this wasn't a real bar, like a meat market, you know? With a price on your ass ... stamped. Stamped on your ... tush." He nodded and she turned away, ignoring his twitching lips. She didn't expect him to understand anyway. "I'm recently divorced."

"I understand." His fingers teased the curls at her nape until her head tilted to the side, silently encouraging him to continue.

"That feels nice." Glancing over her shoulder at him, she murmured, "You're very handsome. Oh Lord! Now I know I shouldn't have had that last Sloe Screw."

"A what?" Laughter colored his voice.

"A Sloe Screw. My friend, she talked me into it. I think it's..." she dragged the word off her tongue, "...technically a Slow Comfortable Screw, though." Lynette inhaled, catching her breath, then chattered on like a magpie. "You smell wonderful. What is that?"

"Romance," he replied, tugging her back to sit next to him.

"I never met a cowboy who wore Ralph Lauren before." She gave in and reclined next to him on the bench. What she really wanted was to curl up against his side. He felt warm and solid, his cologne was spicy yet subtle. Sexy. Her fingers itched to touch him.

Jon chuckled and leaned closer, his voice low. "You're a very pretty lady, Lynette. And, I must confess, I have a serious weakness for redheads."

"Oh, no. No, I'm not at all. Really." She was plain. Hearty. That's what her mother had called her, hearty. "My friend..."

Anything else she might have said was cut off by Jon's lips. Sloe Gin and Southern Comfort delayed her reflexes. Not that she had any intention of pulling away. His mouth was firm and warm, lips gentle on hers as they sipped and teased before finally letting her come up for air.

"That was very nice. Do it again ... please."

Jon laughed softly. "I think I'd better take you back inside and find your friend."

"Oh please no. They won't care." Lynette leaned into him and licked her lips, which were still tender and tingling.

Jon pulled her close, strong fingers tracing the sensitive skin covering her collarbone and trailing up her neck. "Far be it from me to disappoint a lady." He kissed her again. His lips searching and his tongue more insistent this time. Her mouth opened under his and she could feel herself melting. It had been a long time since ... well ... she'd been this worked up. Lynette felt as if molten glass ran through her veins, and she realized she was hungry, starving in fact. She wanted to rub up against Jon like a cat and let him scratch her.

To hell with consequences. "Take me home with you. Please."

"Sweetheart, that's a very bad idea."

Well it sounded like a damned fine idea to her and the fingers rubbing her neck and teasing her hair seemed to agree.

"I'm sorry." She looked away, and her shyness returned full force as embarrassment at her forwardness made her face burn. What would he want with an old dried-up peach anyway?

"I am too. More than you know, but if we did, you'd regret it come morning."

"I should go," she muttered. Lynette stood and looked around, trying to find the way back to the main path.

"Wait..." Jon stood as if to follow.

"No," she said, waving her hand to stop him, "that won't be necessary. Thank you for the dance ... and everything else."

Jon spent the short drive home thinking about Lynette. He'd bitten back his laughter when he caught her sniffing him. "Jon," was all he could manage as he pulled her close, hoping she wouldn't notice how tickled he'd gotten.

Obviously, it'd been a while for her as well. She'd sure been a nice armful to hold. Little Miss Lynette was soft and curvy, and he liked her name. It sounded feminine. The type of name you'd be proud to yell at just the right moment, though he had a feeling she'd be fairly tame in the horizontal boogie department. He grinned in the darkened car. He liked sex. Imaginative sex in imaginative places. Sadly, his own sex life was fairly tame.

Ever try asking a grown woman to go parking on the side of a mountain? Or to make love in the desert in broad daylight? Don't bother. Sex while tubing down the Rio Grande? Forget it. His last girlfriend had threatened to have him arrested.

When Lynette had started swaying and babbling like a brook, he couldn't help himself. Jon had wanted to get closer and the beer garden had seemed like the perfect place. She was, in a word, adorable. Pert nose, pert hair, sensual lips, freckles, full breasted and soft, with curves and lots of padding. He liked that ... padding. He liked women with hips and breasts. The kind that jiggled and bounced and swished and swayed when they walked. The kind of hips that cradled you when you made love and soft, pillowy breasts with puffy nipples to tease.

Lynette had a way about her, that was for sure. Such a contradiction of sexy and reserved. He'd briefly considered leaning up and biting her. He wondered if she'd squeak. Or squeal. Or moan and melt.

He shifted uncomfortably in the Roadster's bucket seat. At this rate he'd end up in a cold shower or jacking off. Between thoughts of tender flesh brushed with curls, chocolate brown eyes and sweet berry-tasting lips he was a goner.

He would have brought her home but he had rules. When he made love to a woman, he didn't want either one of them waking up with regrets or hangovers the next morning. He hadn't meant to upset her or hurt her feelings and was disappointed when she hurried away. He'd hoped to at least get her number; maybe see her again while he was in Bluebonnet. He figured cleaning Gram's house would take at least two weeks.

By the time he pulled into the driveway, the long day and the seven-hour drive he'd made caught up with him in a big way, but Lynette had inspired him. Jon was up until three in the morning, fleshing out the plot for his next novel, which was good for his writing but bad for house cleaning.

He slept in, then was up sucking down coffee and sorting through the downstairs rooms of Gram's rambling two-story house, pen and paper in hand. More than once he cursed his dad who'd arm-twisted him into the job as only a judge can. He'd threatened Jon with a visit from his mother.

Lynette's tongue felt as if she'd licked her way across the Mojave and she had a monster headache to go with it. The sunshine streaming through her bright yellow kitchen curtains didn't help, but coffee, Advil and a hot shower worked a minor miracle.

She spent the rest of the morning working her way through the boxes she'd stored in the spare bedroom, but moved just above a snail's pace. At this rate, she'd never get done. All she really wanted was to stay busy enough that she wouldn't dwell on how she'd acted such a fool over that young cowboy last night. Her mother was probably rolling over in her grave. Good Southern girls didn't act like that. Especially not Georgia Peaches.

To celebrate completing the living and dining rooms, she stopped late in the afternoon and threw a double batch of brownies in the oven. Once they cooled, she iced them and put some on a plate for Mrs. Lindsay's son.

She'd noticed the metallic blue Audi TT Roadster in her neighbor's drive when she got home from the beauty salon yesterday. Robert had desperately wanted one. He'd begged and pouted like a child until she finally reminded him that they just couldn't afford it and keep his Land Rover, too. He'd refused to give up the high-priced SUV, and in typical Robert fashion, laid the blame at her feet. Robert conveniently forgot that it had been his idea for her to kick her business degree to the curb, stay home, raise children and be his little corporate wife.

Unfortunately, the children hadn't come, and she'd hated the corporate wife job. The schmoozing and backstabbing, plotted over gin and tonics and hidden behind sugar-sweet smiles, was more than she could stomach. The memories of her seventeen-year marriage, which had ended when Robert decided his new job in Dallas required him to be single, left a bad taste in her mouth.

She shook it off, refusing to look back any longer than necessary, and reoriented herself. Mrs. Lindsay's son was here to sort out her affairs. The least she could do was be neighborly and take him some brownies, even if she didn't care for his choice in cars. Sorting through one's deceased parent's affects wasn't fun. She'd done it herself not a year ago.

She stepped out onto her front porch, plate in hand, and again noted the Audi parked in the neighboring driveway. Honestly, was there anything worse than a man having a midlife crisis? Yes, a man having a midlife crisis and driving a foreign sports car. He was probably bald. She sighed. That damned hangover had left her peckish.

The hot, dry afternoon sun baked her skin as she made her way across the two yards and knocked on the door.

And waited.

Apparently, Mr. Lindsay also had a thing for Pat Green. Not that she had a problem with Americana-style music, she just didn't care for hers at quite that volume. Mid-life crisis, indeed!

She knocked again, louder this time, and waited. Lynette never heard the footsteps approach, but blinked in surprise when the door flew open. Standing before her in bare-chested glory was her golden-haired cowboy, with a scowl on his face and his hair standing on end.