Curves and the Russian Wrangler by Jenn Roseton
Amber hurried past the small stores lining Main Street in Coldwater Springs, Wyoming. Her mother had called for a quick chat that Saturday morning, just as she’d been about to leave the house, and now she was running late. She prided herself on her punctuality, and always having the Coldwater Country Boutique open at 9.30 every morning, Tuesday to Saturday.
Glancing at her watch, she saw she only had two minutes to reach the shop, unlock the door, and turn the closed sign to open.
She quickened her step, almost jogging in her haste to reach the boutique. Luckily, she wore a supportive sports bra that helped contain her generous breasts, the bane of her existence.
“Look what I’ve got!” A small boy, running along the sidewalk, yelled to his friend.
“Let me see!” The second boy raced beside his friend, looking into the paper bag at the same time.
“Oof!” Amber and the two boys collided, Amber flailing for balance. Before she could fall, a pair of strong arms caught her.
“Those boys were not paying attention,” a decisive, delicious European accented voice murmured in her ear. “Are you all right?”
Amber slowly turned around to look at her rescuer. His hands still clasped her arms as she gazed up at him. He was tall, dwarfing her height of five foot six. He must be six foot, she thought dazedly, taking in his midnight black hair, threaded with the tiniest hint of silver at his temples, his piercing dark brown eyes, and his straight nose, high cheekbones and determined jaw.
He seemed to be in his mid-thirties. His dark denim jeans and plain navy, long-sleeved shirt fit his muscular build well and gave him the appearance of a rancher.
She blinked, then realized he’d asked her a question. “Yes. Thank you.” He’d caught her before hit the ground and hurt herself. She swallowed. “I’m fine.”
“Are you boys okay?” The stranger addressed the kids, who had managed to stay upright during the collision. “You must look where you are going in future.”
“Sorry,” the first boy apologized, picking up his paper bag that was sprawled on the sidewalk, marbles rolling out everywhere.
“Sorry,” his friend said, shifting uncomfortably under the man’s frowning gaze and hurriedly scooping up the stray marbles.
“Very well.” Her rescuer inclined his head. “Off you go.”
“Sorry,” the first boy repeated to Amber, before walking quickly down the street. His friend followed him.
The stranger turned to her. “I am Mikhail--”
“Amber!” Emma Winters called out, dashing up to them, her blonde braid bobbing. “I saw what happened but I was further down the street. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine.” Amber smiled at her curvy friend. Emma was in her early thirties, and happily married to Cade Winters, a horse trainer. Amber realized with a stab of guilt she hadn’t seen Emma for a while. Now that she’d been promoted to manager of the small boutique, she wanted to prove to her newly retired employer that she could handle the job easily. She’d been so busy with her extra workload that she hadn’t had time for anything else.
“Mikhail!” Emma smiled at the stranger. “I’m glad you were here.”
“So am I.” His serious face broke into a smile as he looked at Amber. Butterflies somersaulted in her tummy. “Perhaps you can introduce us, Emma?”
Emma grinned. “Amber, this is Mikhail Stepanov, our new neighbor. Mikhail, this is Amber Dawson. She manages the boutique over there.” She gestured to the clothes shop a few feet away, sporting fresh white paint and a green awning emblazoned with the name, Coldwater Country Boutique. The mannequins in the window wore spring clothes - t-shirts in appealing colors, capris and cargo pants in neutral palettes.
“It is a pleasure to meet you.” He held out his hand, and Amber realized that until now, his large, strong hands had clasped her arms. Now, she suddenly felt bereft, the warmth of his touch no longer there. “Although I wish it had been in more pleasant circumstances.”
His accent sent sensual thrills down her spine. How could just his dark, velvety, deliciously accented voice do that to her? She placed her small, plump hand in his. His tanned fingers closed over it. A shot of heat raced up her arm.
Breathe.
After a few seconds, she heard Emma clear her throat, and she became conscious that her hand was still in Mikhail’s and she’d been gazing up at him like a star-struck teenager.
“I was going to pop into the boutique this morning to look at the new clothes that came in,” Emma said, her gaze switching between them.
“I must not keep you.” Mikhail relinquished her hand, his fingers brushing against her palm.
“Thank you.” She couldn’t help her breathless tone. “For … for catching me.”
“My pleasure.” He nodded. “Emma.” He smiled in farewell.
Both women watched him stride down the street.