Page 14 of Curvy Girl and the Single Dad Cowboy

"She's easy to like," I reply honestly. "You've raised a wonderful little girl, Vincent."

"Thank you. That means a lot."

We stand there for a moment, the air between us charged with something I can't quite put my finger on. Then he seems to make a decision.

"Follow me," he says quietly. "There's something I want to show you."

Curious, I follow him through the house to the back door. He grabs a flannel shirt hanging on a hook and hands it to me.

"It gets cool at night, even in summer," he explains.

I slip the shirt over my t-shirt, immediately enveloped in warmth and a scent that is distinctly Vincent—cedar, leather, and something uniquely his own. It's far too big, the sleeves hanging past my fingertips, but I roll them up without complaint.

Vincent leads me across the yard, past outbuildings and corals, to a small rise just beyond the main property. The night is quiet except for the chorus of crickets and the occasional soft nickering from the horses in their stables.

"This was my thinking spot as a kid," he says as we reach the top of the knoll. "Still is, sometimes."

He stops and simply points upward. I follow his gesture and gasp.

The sky above is nothing like the Chicago skies I'm used to. It's a vast, endless canopy of midnight blue, absolutely blanketed with stars—more stars than I've ever seen in my life. They stretch from horizon to horizon, some bright and bold, others delicate pinpricks of light, all together forming a tapestry so beautiful I’m pretty much speechless.

"Oh my god," I whisper, afraid to speak too loudly as if the sound might shatter this perfect moment. "I've never seen anything like this."

"City lights," Vincent says, his voice low. "They hide all this from you."

I tilt my head back, trying to take it all in at once. "It's incredible. Like someone spilled diamonds across black velvet."

He chuckles softly. "That's a nice way of putting it."

"Do you know the constellations?" I ask, still staring upward.

"Some. My dad taught me when I was a boy." He points to a formation. "That's the Big Dipper, part of Ursa Major. And over there—" his arm shifts, "—is Cassiopeia. Looks like a W."

I follow his finger, trying to see the patterns in the dazzling array of stars. "I think I see it. What's that bright one there?"

"That's Venus, actually. A planet, not a star."

"Show me more," I urge, captivated by both the night sky and the quiet passion in his voice.

Vincent points out more constellations—Cygnus, the swan; Lyra, the harp; and Aquila, the eagle.

"Over there," he says, pointing again, "is the Milky Way. Our galaxy, edge-on."

I follow his gaze to see a misty band of light stretching across the sky.

"It's beautiful," I murmur. "Makes you feel small, doesn't it?"

"In a good way," he agrees. "Puts problems in perspective."

Without thinking, I wrap my arms around myself, the night chill finally penetrating the borrowed shirt Vincent had given me.

"Cold?" he asks, noticing the gesture.

"A little," I admit.

He hesitates, then steps closer. "Here."

Carefully, as if afraid I might object, he puts an arm around my shoulders. The warmth of him immediately seeps into me, solid and reassuring.

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