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Don’t get me wrong, I love cows. I am a firm believer that if you pass them while you’re driving, you’re legally obligated to point at them and say “Cows!” But that’s the only way I’ve ever seen a cow—through the car window, in a field, far away.

Now the cows and I were up close and personal. They were swarming my car like bees at a hive. I didn’t know how it happened—or what to do now. My windows were rolled down, and I figured I would start with just asking them to move.

“Could you guys please move?” I said loudly. “I really need to get through.” I honked my horn once to emphasize my point.

Nothing.

If I slowly moved forward, would they get out of the way? Or would I accidentally become a cow murderer? Could I kill a cow going one mile per hour? Or would I just injure it? Would I have to pay the vet bill? I couldn’t afford the vet bill for a cow.

And what if I hit more than one?

Oh god.

I looked at my phone. It was 9:25. I thought that I could reverse and go around, but that idea went out the window when I looked through my rearview mirror and saw more cows.

All right, Ada,these cows are standing between you and your future. How are you going to get through?

I scrambled for my phone, which was plugged into my aux cord—well, one of those tape things that had an aux cord—quickly found my early 2000s playlist, and cranked up the volume.

Within a few seconds, “Move Bitch Get Out da Way” was pumping through my speakers. This was going to work. If they wouldn’t listen to me, they might listen to Ludacris.

I put both hands on the wheel, ready to speed through the opening that would inevitably appear once the cows realized what I needed.

I was ready.

But…nothing happened.

I was still stuck and now—I looked at my phone again—officially late.

I dropped my head onto the steering wheel and let out a huff. The last twelve hours had really not been great for me.

I kept my head down, contemplating my entire existence, until I heard a voice.

A man’s voice. And it wasn’t Ludacris.

I peeled my forehead off my steering wheel and saw two men coming my way on horseback.

There was also a white ball of fluff with them.

The cowboy who was on a gray-and-white dappled horse came closer to my driver’s-side window, and I quickly turned my music down. I really hoped he was here to get the cows out of my way.

When I looked up at him, I was met with the same green eyes that had captured me at the bar last night.

My eyes went wide. “Oh, fuck” slipped from my mouth before I knew what I was saying.

I was met with those license-to-kill dimples that were even more perfect in the light of day. In my head, he had been a cowboy because I was in Wyoming and he was wearing cowboy boots. It didn’t occur to me that he wasactuallya cowboy. But the man in front of me was a cowboy through and through—down to the brown hat and leather chaps.

And the horse.

Obviously.

“Fancy seein’ you here,” he drawled. My mouth went dry. What were the chances that the one time I make out with a stranger, he turns out to work on the ranch that’s also the site of my project? “We’ll get these guys out of your way.” He paused. The other cowboy was working on the cows, who had started to move away from my car. They were taking their sweet-ass time, but at least they were moving. The white ball of fluff, which I now recognized as Waylon—thedog that got me into trouble in the first place—was also contributing. “We don’t get a lot of visitors this way—are you looking for something?”

Silence was no longer an option. “I—I’m here to meet with Weston Ryder,” I stammered. “I start work here today.”

The cowboy’s smile widened. He was looking at me like he knew something I didn’t, and it made me uneasy.

“You’re Ada Hart?” he asked.