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I was in Dry Creek to lie low until the Feds had their case together.

Not to get involved with some hot cowboy.

Not to do this.

Whatever this is.

Because, let’s be honest, this man—this moody-eyed cowboy—is not just sexy. He’s dangerous.

Not in the mobster-will-bury-you sense.

But in the destroy-your-emotional-stability-and-make-you-question-all-your-life-choices sense.

And also, probably, he’s a really good time in bed.

Which, let’s face it, I kinda suck at.

We don’t match. This whole flirting thing is dumb. And it won’t go anywhere.

I mean, I’m like five foot four inches tall at best.

He’s gotta be six foot four.

“Six foot five and a half,” he says without looking over, like he can hear me thinking.

I nearly choke on my own tongue. “What the hell. How much of that did I say out loud?”

He chuckles—a low rumble that makes my thighs clench in appreciation.

“Sure is a lot of traffic,” I blurt, desperate to redirect.

He hums. “Are you changing the subject, Petals?”

“Petals?” I echo, frowning.

“Your skin,” he says, voice even lower now. “Smooth as a rose petal.”

Is he blushing?

Oh my fuck, he is.

This man is stupid attractive.

More so than I remembered.

Like break-the-universe handsome.

Tanned skin, strong jaw, sharp cheekbones, a mouth made for sin, and eyes so blue they’re flirting with violet.

Add in the chin-length waves I want to thread my fingers through while screaming thank you, universe and—wait.

“It’s like if Henry Cavill and Bad Bunny had a baby,” I whisper, then immediately slap my hand over my mouth. “Shit.”

“What the fuck is a Bad Bunny?”

“Shit,” I say again. “How much of that did I say out loud?”

Zeke glances at me, amused. “Something about me being Superman’s lovechild with some fucking rodent.”