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      NIKKI BRAXTON WAS through with men and relationships.

      Done.

      Finished.

       That’s all, folks!

      She eyed the mountain of whispery pink sugar and smiled. From here on out, she was eating her way to happiness.

      She lapped at the sweetness and focused on the rush of happy that surged from her brain to the tips of her toes and back up again. Sugar was definitely the way to go.

      That’s what she told herself as she snagged a piece of cotton candy with her finger and popped it into her mouth. Her taste buds tingled and her frustration eased. Temporarily, of course.

      But then, that was the story of her life.

      Another bite, another surge of satisfaction, and she started to think that maybe, just maybe, the phone call from Bill two weeks ago, complete with a very graphic, albeit accidental, image from his picture phone, had been a good thing.

      Okay, it hadn’t been so great that he’d purposely sent the pic to his bowling buddies, who, in turn, had shown everyone and their dog. Which meant the entire town had shared in her humiliation.

      Even so, it wasn’t the end of the world.

      So what if Bill—the two-timing jerk—had cheated on her? So what if he was still in Vegas, holed up with two pairs of fake boobies, having a bona fide orgy, just as Molly had said? Good riddance. He’d been a mama’s boy who still lived at home, and she’d wasted seven months on him already. Seven months of Friday-night dinners with him and his mother and Saturday-night movie dates with him and his mother and Sunday picnics with him and—you guessed it—his mother.

      While seven didn’t sound like a lot, add it to the sixteen months she’d wasted with Roger Beeville (he’d had a thing for women’s shoes that had driven him to swipe every pair during tournament week down at the bowling alley), the thirteen months before that with Stan Caufield (he’d had a thing for his secretary…and his cleaning lady, and the clerk down at the video store and the acrylic-nail girl at Nancy’s Nails) and the eighteen months before that with Jerry Whatshisname (he’d had a thing for his old football buddy named Buck), and it amounted to a lot of wasted time. Factor in at least six months between each for a decent mourning period (and enough Hershey’s Kisses to dull the pain), and we were talking years.

      Forget the optimistic twenty-two-year-old she’d been with a brand-spanking-new degree in cosmetology and dreams of her own happily ever after—a nice, reliable man, two kids, a couple of dogs and a house with a huge backyard. She was now thirty years old and the stressed-out owner of her own hair salon, To Dye For. She had a monstrous bank loan and an endless string of bad relationships with dysfunctional men.

      She also had a giant mortgage.

      While she’d given up on the guy for now, she saw no reason to hinge everything on Mr. Nice and Reliable. Sure, she wasn’t ready to go it alone when it came to kids, or even the dogs, but she was more than capable of buying a house and taking at least a small step toward her happily ever after.

      She’d done so last week and had spent every night since making a list of needed repairs—they didn’t call it a fixerupper for nothing. She still had a lot to do, from painting to new flooring, but she felt good. Productive.

      If only she felt satisfied.

      Instead she was wound tighter than an extrakinky perm. She needed an orgasm in the worst way.

      The knowledge stuck in her brain as she turned to walk toward the dunking booth just around the corner.

      Not that she couldn’t head home right this second and treat herself if she felt like it. She shopped online, like every other woman in her small town, and she had her own personal arsenal of female sex toys. She was more than capable of handling the situation on her own. But she knew from past experience that the release would be all too brief. Even more, there was no satisfaction in snuggling with a multispeed vibrator.

      She needed a flesh-and-blood man for that.

      Hence Bill.

      Seven months of snuggling and cuddling and making out—when they were able to elude his mother, that is—and she’d finally been ready to go all the way. She’d planned a big welcome home at his place, complete with a home-cooked dinner and herself as the dessert. A huge offering for a woman who’d grown up hearing her great-aunt Izzie preach, “A man won’t buy the cow if he gets the milk for free.”

      Old-fashioned. Sexist. The saying was both. And it was also true. Nikki’s mother—Izzie’s niece—had spent her entire life “giving it away,” and not once had she ever had a meaningful, lasting relationship.

      There’d been no joint checking account, no monogrammed towels, no picture perfect family gathered around the Thanksgiving table. There’d been only Aunt Izzie, Nikki, Nikki’s mother, and whatever man Nikki had been calling “Uncle” that week.

      Nikki had wanted more for herself. A solid, lasting relationship. Permanent. And so she’d taken Izzie’s advice and held back.

      Not that she was a virgin, mind you. She’d done the deed a handful of times in the past. With Jerry (before he’d started wearing her underwear). And with Stan (before he’d started wearing her shoes). But with each man she’d waited a decent amount of time. Long enough to preserve her nice-girl status and really get to know him.

      Or so she’d thought.

      She tugged at another fluff of pink and popped it into her mouth. There. Talk about ecstasy. No batteries needed. No waiting period required. No weird hidden fetish ready to jump up and bite her when she least expected it.

      It didn’t get much better.

      “Wanna bet?” The deep, masculine voice slid into her ears and snagged her out of the sugar high dulling her senses.

      Every nerve in Nikki’s body snapped to attention as she stopped and turned. Her gaze collided with a pair of eyes so gray and translucent they looked silver.

      Excitement pumped through her, followed by a bolt of desire that gripped every inch of her body and stalled the air in her lungs. She forgot to breathe for the next several seconds as she drank in the cowboy who’d come up behind her.

      He had a great face. Not the perfect GQ kind but a face that said he was every bit as rough and rugged as his voice implied.

      Beneath the brim of his black Stetson, his gaze gleamed hot and bright and knowing. Stubble darkened his strong jaw, circled his sensuous mouth and crept down the column of his throat. Dark hair curled from beneath his hat and brushed his collar.

      He stood well over six feet, his shoulders broad and massive beneath a black T-shirt. Just below the edge of his sleeves, ornate slave-band tattoos circled each muscular bicep. Faded jeans cupped his crotch, clung to his thighs and traced the outline of his long, sinewy legs. He wore scuffed black cowboy boots