Page 27 of Cowboy Bull's Promise

Still, it’s warm out today. Finally.

I decide to brush out my hair until it falls in soft, wavy ribbons, all shiny and clean.

I pull it up into a high ponytail, a little bounce at the crown. Something about it makes me feel fresh.

Presentable.

Kinda cute.

I swipe on a bit of face powder, add some mascara to make my blue eyes pop, and finish with a touch of pink gloss.

Sweet.

Simple.

Functional.

I don’t do heavy makeup. Not because I’m some au naturel goddess or anything, but because I run hot.

And by hot, I don’t mean sexy.

I mean sweaty.

You ever see blush on top of a peaches-and-cream complexion that’s currently losing a battle with humidity and hustle?

Yeah.

Not cute.

I learned the hard way that my peaches turn into overripe apples real fast, and if I try to layer blush over that, I end up looking like a cross between Punch, Judy, and a Victorian fever victim.

No thanks.

So, I keep it minimal.

Powder to matte the shine, something to keep my lips from looking ghostly, and boom.

I am done.

Not much I can do about these jeans, though.

They’ve seen better days, and they are definitely tighter in the backside than I remember.

Yes, I am talking about my ass.

Whatever.

I made peace with the fact that I’m a bigger girl when I was still in high school.

And now, with thirty creeping up behind me like a sneaky little gremlin, I can finally say I’m good with it.

More than good, actually.

I feel comfortable.

Like I fit into my body instead of trying to shrink it.

Hell, I even think I look okay. Maybe even cute on a good day.

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