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Which should’ve been a giant red flag.

But instead of moving on like a rational adult, I’ve been mentally writing our love story in a three-act structure and imagining what our adorable future children would look like.

God, what is wrong with me?

Avery said Max Leeds—the owner of the Motley Crewd Ranch—gave every employee a stake in the place and their own cabin.

Zeke works there.

Which means he lives there.

Which means this whole weekend, I’ll be sleeping just a few acres away from the human embodiment of my unresolved sexual tension.

Cool. Fine. No problem.

Except for the fact that I don’t actually know anything about him.

What if he’s taken?

What if he’s married?

Oh God.

What if he’s got, like, five kids and a wife who bakes cupcakes and raises rescue chickens and I’m just the idiot who flirted with someone’s literal husband in front of the entire town?

My palms are sweating.

My chest feels tight.

The walls inside the truck’s cabin feel like they’re shrinking, and I actually feel like I have to have to sit down on the edge of my seat and put my head between my knees.

I don’t. But I feel like I need to.

Panic attack. Awesome.

This is fine. It’s all fine. Totally normal to hyperventilate over a hot cowboy who danced with you, rearranging your outlook on life with the force of a small natural disaster and then ghosted like a myth.

“Just breathe,” I mutter to myself.

He cocks his head.

Shit. Did he hear me?

I pull myself together the best I can, straighten my shirt, fluff my curls, and I wait for—something.

Then it happens.

Something flares in his gaze.

Something hot and sharp and entirely not helpful.

“You ready?” he asks, voice low and gruff and unfairly sex-on-a-stick.

I nod mutely and step closer, with my tote bag slung over my shoulder like it’s not loaded with nervous breakdowns and unresolved sexual tension.

As I climb into the truck, one thought loops over and over in my head:

If he’s married, I’m faking my death and starting over in Idaho.