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I should’ve looked away, but I didn’t.

I couldn’t tell what color his eyes were from here, but I wanted to.

We stared at each other for way longer than was socially acceptable, and he flashed me a small smile that hinted at a dimple on either side of his face.

Not fucking dimples.

Those should be illegal.

Or at least require some sort of warning before flashing them at people.

Warning: Dimples may appear and cause panty-dropping.

It looked like he was about to start toward me, but our weird and intense stare-off was interrupted by the bartender putting an ice cube down the back of the cowboy’s shirt.

He made a distinctly unmanly noise that made me laugh. Everyone’s hot and badass until there’s an ice cube down their shirt.

“Brooks! What the hell!” he exclaimed and did this little shimmy thing as he tried to get it out. It was cute.

Really cute.

The bartender—Brooks—just laughed as he made his way back behind the bar, bag of ice in one hand, and said, “Get your dog, and I’ll let you stay for a drink.”

The cowboy adjusted his shirt and ran a hand through his sandy brown hair. “Fine.”

He took a step toward me, catching me with his unrelenting eye contact again. Why was he coming toward me?

A warm tongue licked my hand again.

Oh. The dog. Right.

I looked down, breaking his stare. I had to. I couldn’t be held responsible for what might happen if we maintained eye contact for much longer. There was something about it—the confidence it communicated—that felt electric.

“Sorry about him.” His voice was close to me now. My fluffy companion wagged his tail as his owner’s footsteps approached. “He’s got a thing for beautiful women.” My eyessnapped up, and yet another smile was pulled from me, but this one was directed at the man who was now less than two steps from me.

“Has that line ever worked for you?” I said with a laugh. My voice felt foreign—not quite comfortable. Like when you talk for the first time after waking up.

“You tell me,” he said. His eyes were bright. And green.Sofucking green.

“Not bad,” I responded, “but I feel like the delivery could be improved.”

There was another flash of dimple. “How so?”

“You’ve got to mean it,” I said.

His expression changed. He looked confused. “Of course I meant it.”Huh.He was so convincing. Maybe if I’d had better experiences with men, I would’ve believed him.

“Hey!” Brooks’s voice cut through our conversation, and the cowboy looked back at him. “Bottle or draft?”

Instead of answering, the cowboy looked at my table—the iPad must’ve made it obvious I was working on something, because instead of trying to sit or insert himself, he looked at his dog and said: “Let’s let the beautiful woman work, Waylon.” Waylon obeyed and went to his owner, whose eyes were back on me. “I’ll be at the bar when you’re done—if you want company.”

Wait.He wasn’t going to pressure me? Try and make his way into my space? He was just going to…let me work?

Damn. I guess men were built different in Meadowlark.

The cowboy gave me one last dimpled smile before turning back for the bar. My new friend, Waylon, followed him.

I watched him walk away, and it took effort for me to tear my gaze away from his back.