Okay, I got it.
There was a reason they called him the “silver fox”.
Nonna wasn’t the only woman twice my age whose eyes followed him wherever he went. If it weren’t for the fact that I’d known him ever since moving to this Podunk town and had never seen him out with a female on his arm, the first impression he gave off was that he was a shameless flirt.
I mean, come on. The cowboy preacher constantly went around with his sleeves rolled up to reveal a set of biceps which could put Smith and Wesson out of business.
After I made a point of studying him—not because he was drop dead gorgeous, mind, just because I’ve never come across a man like him before—I came to one conclusion. His looks would make the angels sing and a nun drop her panties faster than you could say Hail Mary.
Hail Mar
