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That’s when I know I’m in love with her.

Could be the grief talking. Could be the feel of her body wrapped up in mine.

But in my heart of hearts, I know that somehow, over the course of an hour, maybe less, I’ve fallen in love with my bestfriend. Or maybe I’ve been in love with her all along, and the realization is only hitting me now.

And because I’m in love with her, I have to let her go.

So I don’t lean in and kiss her.

I don’t throw her over my shoulder and carry her out of the water and lay her down in the back seat of the truck.

I don’t tell her how I feel.

I don’t do any of that.

Instead, I paste on a smile and pry my hands off her waist.

“C’mon, Sunshine,” I say. “It’s getting dark. Let’s get you home.”

CHAPTER 1

Sally

KING OF HEARTS

PRESENT DAY - NOVEMBER

Checkingout the cowboy across the bar, I have one thought and one thought only—Damn, I’ve missed this.

Thick, tan, tattooed forearms rippling with muscle and crisscrossed with large veins—check.

Stetson and a pair of broken-in Wranglers, which are topped off with a clean white tee that stretches across his broad chest and shows off his enormous biceps—check.

Scruffy, obscenely handsome smirk—check.

My heart flutters when he looks up from chatting with the gorgeous blonde at his elbow and turns that smirk on me. This cowboy is the complete opposite of the serious, seriously entitled guys I went to college and veterinary school with, and I amherefor it.

Maybe that’s why I’m in the middle of the longest sexual drought of my life. Up until this summer, I wasn’t hanging out with any cowboys.

The cowboys I grew up with are generous and honest to a fault. They say what they mean, and they don’t play games. They certainly don’t make you feel self-conscious, like you’reasking for too much or you’re not cute or cool enough. Having lived in a handful of different places over the course of my studies, I’ve learned how rare that kind of man is.

The cowboy across the bar holds up his first two fingers in his approximation of a wave. “Hey, Sunshine.”

I manage a smile, my face burning. “Hey, Wyatt.”

You’d think I’d be immune to my best friend’s extreme hotness by now, even though I’ve been away from Hartsville more often than not over the past decade. He and I have been friends for—goodness—over twenty years now. Wyatt Riversshouldbe like a brother to me.

Only the raging crush I’ve had on him since the second I hit puberty makes my feelings for him anything but fraternal.

The supermodel type beside him hanging on his every word is Exhibit A as to why I’ve never acted on those feelings. Wyatt is way,wayout of my league. He was always Mr. Popularity, star of our high school baseball and football teams, while I was the nerd who played violin, had braces, and spent her free time assisting her dad, a veterinarian, with calls on ranches across the county.

Wyatt is also very much a free spirit. Or playboy, depending on who you ask.

He’d be the perfect hookup, if only he wasn’t my best friend. I don’t have time for a boyfriend; last week, I was offered my dream job in Ithaca, New York, so I’m not sticking around in Hartsville. But while I’m here, I’d like to be able to get out of my head and have some really great sex—work out some of the frustration I’ve felt lately about, well, everything.

My experience in that department has been lackluster at best.

I lost my virginity at twenty-one to my boyfriend at the time, and the sex was unexciting to say the least; I only orgasmed when I took care of it myself. He blamed me, saying he’d “be more into it” if I was adventurous and lost a few pounds.