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Granddad snorted, but his eyes were amused.

“He learned to rope posts and dummy cows when he was in kindergarten. Skills come into play when the target is trying to get away,” Granddad said. “I don’t see you running.”

“No, sir,” Nico said. “Thank you for the suggestion of Midnight for my ride today. Your ranch is beautiful, and Bodhi was a lovely guide.”

“He was?” Granddad’s look said it all. Bodhi felt like Granddad had used a drone to spy his middle grandson getting down and dirty with his beautiful guest on the riverbank.

This was ridiculous. Granddad said the ranch was home, and he was a grown man. He shouldn’t feel like he was still a teen putting the wrong boot forward and Bowen or Granddad about to gently remind him how to do something. Or cuff his head.

“This is the wrong kind of rope to teach with.” Granddad plucked the rope off of Nico.

“I was going to take Bodhi out to dinner. Would you care to join us, Mr. Ballantyne?”

“Wait. What?” Granddad wasn’t part of the plan. But now that Bodhi had opened his mouth, he looked like a selfish idiot. Granddad was the most discerning person he’d ever had the privilege or terror to meet. But if he and Nico could pull this off, Granddad would be more than halfway to believing the fairy tale when he dropped on bended knee at the Bash. Nico was so intelligent and interesting and beautiful. Granddad would have no trouble believing he’d fall boots over butt in love. “I’m paying,” he finished lamely.

“It’s the twenty-first century.” Nico was clearly amused both at his predicament and his chest beating.

“Nevertheless, this is my town, and I’m paying.”

“Sounds about right,” Granddad said. “I’d love to join you both.”

*

Nico took ahot shower, luxuriating in the scented bath products. She blew her hair dry and contemplated her limited wardrobe. She’d bought jeans and shirts and a few blouses and one denim dress from the western wear store, but she hadn’t planned on dining out with a handsome cowboy lover or his grandfather in what might be the nicest restaurant in town. True, the Graff hotel was no Four Seasons, and yet it had a quiet elegance. And the western touches added a patina of history and charm.

She went light on the makeup and threw some loose curls in her hair and pulled it to the side.

She’d brought some black dressy trousers that she always loved because they could be both elegant yet tailored for work. She had the blazer that matched—it was cropped with one button and had a narrow leopard stripe piping. But she didn’t have a silk blouse to go under it. If it had just been Bodhi, she might have been daring and just worn a bra, allowing more skin and cleavage to tease him over the evening, but inviting Granddad nixed that plan.

Or did it?

She rifled through her overnight bag she’d blindly thrown a few of her favorite clothing items into when she’d impulsively left New York after her final FBI debrief interview. She still couldn’t understand her impulse. She’d wanted to drive and just get away to think, but some sense of preservation made her pack a small bag, thinking that she might stop somewhere. Driving all the way to Montana now seemed extreme. And brilliant.

She found a stretchy lace, fairly sheer, white tank and a similar black one. She had quite a few back home in her Manhattan apartment. They’d been staples under her more conventional suits. Her lip curled. That had been her life and her wardrobe. Black on black and an occasional peek of white.

She chose the black one, sure Bodhi’s granddad would think she was auditioning for a funeral director position sometime in the near future.

“Come to think of it…” She smiled. “I don’t have a job.”

Technically, she didn’t have to work ever again, but what kind of life would that be with no purpose? The urge to make some sort of societal restitution burned. Her family considered her cooperation a betrayal. The FBI said she’d done a public good. But none of it felt personal enough. Big enough. Yet she’d imploded her life. What other pound of flesh did she have to give?

Dressed and ready, she idly fingered the coiled white rope Ben Ballantyne had handed to her before she’d driven back to town. She practiced coiling and making the loop but didn’t swing it over her head. The only thing she’d capture would be a broken lamp. She’d have to encourage her inner cowgirl next time she was at Three Tree Ranch.

Today had been eye-opening. She had loved the wide-open spaces, the views spreading as far as she could see. Her life had been lived in penthouses and mansions in cities nestled in tall buildings. She’d mostly worked, and when she did vacation it was to a European capital or a ski vacation with other wealthy people hurtling down black diamonds or fresh powder on a heli-ski run in an intense burst of an exorbitantly expensive quest for fun. But today, riding, swimming, and making love with Bodhi had been the most fun she’d ever had. She felt more relaxed than she ever had.

And it will be so fleeting.

Not liking her dark thoughts, she hurried downstairs to the bar. Some of the seating had been rearranged partially to accommodate the rather large wedding party—some of who’d arrived and were drinking and talking jovially.

A small camera crew was with them, talking to a slickly handsome young man who had his arm possessively around a pretty young, stylishly thin platinum blonde.

“Not like your hair is exactly real anymore,” she reminded herself. But she liked this color. It suited her new attitude. And Bodhi couldn’t keep his hands out of it. She’d always had red highlights that she’d darkened at her mother’s request as a teen, but she’d continued to do so as an adult, thinking it would help her to be taken more seriously professionally.

Not wanting any attention, she steered clear of the group—many of whom were angling to get in the film shot—and headed up to the bar. Even though it was Monday, two bartenders worked. Shane and Lachlan.

“What can I get you?” Shane asked.

“You mentioned you were developing a rodeo cocktail for the week.”