Page 4

O kay.

Three seconds in the company of the stupid hot cowboy and I’m suddenly auditioning to be the next Marvel snark queen.

So, no, I wasn’t expecting Zeke to pick me up. And, yes, my foolish heart started pounding the second I spied him.

But where are these one-liners even coming from?

What the heck is wrong with me?

Sigh. Do I even need to answer that?

Let’s take stock.

I’m a chubby almost-doctor pretending to be a school nurse while hiding from my unhinged ex-boyfriend, who just so happens to be a literal gangster with mafia ties and a warped sense of ownership when it comes to me .

So, yeah. I’m in absolutely zero position to be swooning over the man who just pulled up in a growly black pickup like he walked straight out of my favorite enemies-to-lovers Pinterest board.

And yet.

There he is.

Zeke Gordon.

All six-foot-forever of glowering, brooding cowboy gorgeousness.

Still, just as unfairly hot as the night we danced.

Still giving off touch me and perish energy that makes my thighs clench, and my sanity evaporate.

He’s standing right there, leaning against the truck, arms crossed over his broad chest like he’s guarding the last piece of chocolate cake on Earth.

I peek at him through my eyelashes, heart thudding against my ribs like it’s trying to stage a prison break.

Breathe, Casey. Breathe.

We danced at Avery’s wedding. Just one dance. One magical, heart-shaking, knee-weakening moment .

And then he never called.

Never came by.

Never anythinged .

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.

“Um, so, I don’t know if you remember me from Avery and Dante’s wedding, but I’m Casey Reynolds,” I start, giving him a smile that feels a little too forced.

“I know who you are,” he cuts in, eyes straight ahead, voice low and rough like honey drizzled over gravel.

Okay.

Rude.

“Alright, Mr. Personality. Well, I forgot your name. So?” I lie, with the kind of confidence I do not feel.

Why did I say that?

I know his name. I remember it too well, actually—like it was tattooed on my brain the second he strutted into the room, all tall and broody with that cowboy-meets-underwear-model vibe.

This isn’t even my style. I’m not a liar.

I’m the one who brings labeled Tupperware to potlucks and says sorry when other people bump into me .

But apparently my survival instinct in the face of ridiculous male hotness is sarcasm and deception. Neat.

Maybe it’s because he’s so perfectly irritating.

Like, how dare he look like that and not even have the decency to be mildly awkward about it?

No, he’s just there, existing . Unfazed, unreadable, probably judging me with those glacier-blue eyes.

“Gordon,” he says, pausing like he’s giving me a chance to apologize or swoon or both. “Zeke Gordon.”

Of course. Even his name is hot.

Zeke.

The name sounds like it belongs to a man who chops wood shirtless just for the therapy of it.

Okay, so that bit is done. But wait, I am still not out of the woods.

“And your wife is?”

He flicks his gaze from the road to me, one brow arched in amusement.

“Nonexistent. Is that your way of subtly asking if I’m involved with someone?”

“Well, I mean, it wasn’t subtle,” I mutter, already wondering how fast I can fling myself out of this truck and into oncoming traffic.

He smirks. Actually smirks.

Like the left side of his mouth curves just a little, and my entire brain short-circuits.

“Okay. How about you?” he asks, casual as can be. “Husband? Boyfriend? Stalker I need to worry about?”

My heart does a full-body lurch.

Stalker. Yikes.

“No husband. No boyfriend,” I say quickly, keeping my voice breezy even though my stomach is doing backflips. “Definitely not.”

He nods like it’s no big deal. Like my face didn’t just go white as a sheet. But it’s too close to the truth. Too real.

Michael D’Angelo isn’t just a stalker. He’s a snake in designer suits with dead eyes and dangerous friends.

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.”

“Bad Bunny,” I mumble. “He’s a rapper. From Puerto Rico. Not a cartoon. Very hot. Lots of swagger. Grammy winner. Cultural icon.”

“You speak Spanish?”

“No, but some things transcend language barriers,” I sigh.

His chuckle slides under my skin and settles somewhere low in my belly. I swear I could melt right here in the passenger seat.

But then it hits me.

Like a bucket of ice water straight to the face.

This is bad.

Because I can see it now, clear as day.

The danger sign in my head flashing a big, screaming red WARNING .

I came here to stay hidden. To keep my head down. To be safe.

Not to crush on a cowboy with a growly voice and eyes like storms.

Not to want.

Not to hope.

And definitely not to start wondering what it’d feel like to have those rough hands on my skin while he whispers my name like a promise.

Nope.

Nope, nope, nope.

Too bad my body didn’t get the memo.

He takes a sharp turn, and I almost slide right out of the seat. I gasp audibly. Zeke’s hand shoots out and steadies me.

“Easy, Petals. I got you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I whisper.

He cocks his head and growls deep in his throat.

“Don’t be afraid. I promise not to bite unless you ask me to.”