Page 18 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy (Wild Hearts Ranch #1)

SOPHIA

A t exactly two o’clock, Walker knocks on my door.

I’ve spent the past few hours doing everything I can not to think about him.

Not about the almost kiss. Not about the way his voice curled around me like smoke.

And definitely not about the fire smoldering between my thighs that refuses to go out, no matter how many icy showers I take.

My body feels like it’s betraying me, aching for him in ways that terrify me.

Because what if this isn’t just lust? What if this is a scent match and my heat responding?

God, no. Though, that would explain the way I nearly came apart just from him carrying me in his arms. How my chest tightened when I caught his scent. And now how I feel like I might actually die if I don’t see him again soon .

So I distracted myself.

I dragged every clean item of clothing I have out of my bag, hardly anything, and tried them all on like I was auditioning for a runway show in the middle of nowhere.

The kittens didn’t care. Chonkarella lounged at the foot of the bed, one paw slung over her twin furballs like she was judging my wardrobe with regal disdain.

I finally settled on a sundress I’d thrown in as an afterthought, a pale yellow number embroidered with tiny wildflowers along the hem. It cinches at the waist and floats to mid-thigh, soft cotton against sun-warmed skin. Not exactly ranch wear, but it’s clean and doesn’t smell like barn animals.

And maybe I want him to look at me the way he did earlier.

Even if I know I’m not ready to admit it.

I open the door and immediately forget how to breathe.

Walker has changed too, and the sight of him makes my mouth go dry.

He’s wearing dark jeans that fit him perfectly, showcasing long, strong legs that seem to go on forever.

A blue-and-white-checked shirt stretches across his broad shoulders, pearl snaps catching the afternoon light like tiny stars.

His belt buckle is different from the one he wore this morning and depicts a big silver star.

The tan-colored Stetson sits at just the right angle, shadowing his warm brown eyes in a way that makes them look darker, more dangerous, more… everything.

He’s so tall that I have to tilt my head back to meet his gaze, and when I do, the look in his eyes makes my stomach flip.

He’s staring at me like I’m something precious and edible all at once, his stare tracking slowly from my face down to where the dress hugs my curves, lingering on the way the fabric clings to my chest before forcing his eyes back up.

“You look…” He clears his throat, Adam’s apple bobbing in a way that shouldn’t be attractive but absolutely is. “That’s a pretty dress.”

“Thanks. You clean up pretty well yourself, cowboy.” I aim for light and teasing, but my voice comes out breathier than intended, like I’ve been running.

“Ready to go?”

“Lead the way.”

His truck is exactly what I expected, a well-maintained Ford, vibrant blue paint and a bench seat covered in a wool blanket.

He opens my door without fanfare, but his hand on my elbow as I navigate the high step sends sparks through me.

The dress rides up slightly as I climb in, and I catch his sharp intake of breath.

“First stop,” he states as we pull onto the main road, his voice rougher than usual. “Western wear store. Can’t have you chasing animals in those city shoes. Then there’s a dress store nearby you might like.”

I want to argue, not about the practicality but about the spending.

I hate the idea of racking up any kind of debt here, even temporarily.

My current wardrobe consists of too few clothes.

I need to work out when I’m going to drive to Chicago to grab some more and deal with my rental.

Thinking about it makes me breathe too quickly.

“Okay,” I agree softly. “But I’m paying you back. Every penny.”

“Wouldn’t expect anything less,” he says, glancing at me with a faint grin.

The rest of the drive slips into silence.

Not an awkward one, but a charged one. The kind that crackles beneath your skin and hums low in your stomach.

I keep sneaking glances at him, at the way his forearms flex as his hands grip the steering wheel, the concentration in his jaw, the way the sun filters through the windshield and catches the dust in his hair like flecks of gold.

His scent is strong in the cab, honey and man, but thank God the window is cracked, letting in fresh air.

It helps. Barely. I grip the seat belt as if it’ll save me from drowning in pheromones and don’t dare bring up the scent match thing.

If I pretend it’s not there, maybe it’ll stop pulsing through my bloodstream like some kind of Omega fever.

The scenery outside helps ground me. Wide-open green fields stretch on either side of the road, dotted with cows and rust-colored barns.

A red-tailed hawk cuts through the sky, and somewhere far off, a tractor hums. Then, just like that, the countryside gives way to the town of Honeyspur Meadow.

It might as well have been plucked straight from a Hallmark movie set.

Quaint. Charming. A little too perfect with its tiny whitewashed fences outside some of the buildings, flower boxes, and cheerful storefronts with hand-painted signs.

Walker pulls into a spot right out front of the Western wear store, a prime location that feels suspiciously lucky. He throws the truck in park and hops out before I can unbuckle my seat belt.

I’ve barely opened the door before he’s there, pulling it the rest of the way and offering a hand to help me down.

“I can get out of a truck by myself,” I tease, slipping my hand into his anyway. The contact is brief, but the warmth lingers.

“Sure you can,” he says, lips twitching. “But you don’t have to.”

As I step onto the sidewalk, an older couple, maybe in their sixties, walks by, hand in hand. They smile warmly at Walker, but their eyes shift to me… and linger. Their smiles widen, a little too knowing, and then they move on, whispering to each other as they go.

I clear my throat. “Friendly town. ”

“Everyone knows everyone,” he replies easily, but his voice has an edge of amusement. “And they’ve got theories about everything.”

Of course they do.

Then I finally take in the store itself, larger than I expected, stretching half the block.

The windows are filled with mannequins decked out in rhinestone-studded shirts, pearl-snap dresses, worn leather jackets, and enough cowboy boots to start a stampede.

A pair of fringed chaps hangs dramatically near the entrance, daring someone to try them on.

The Western wear store feels like another world.

Rows of boots in every color and style imaginable line one wall—snakeskin, distressed leather, embroidered roses, even a pair that glitters with gold sequins.

To my left, there’s a whole section dedicated to denim, and to the right, enough hats to outfit a country music video.

Walker tips his head toward the back. “Boots first. You’ll want something sturdy for the mud. And maybe something else for when we go into town that won’t get you strange looks.”

He’s close to me again. Too close. And his scent is thicker inside, no breeze to save me this time. I try not to visibly lean toward him. Try even harder not to imagine what his mouth felt like almost pressed to mine.

He gestures for me to go ahead but stays near enough that I feel him at my back. It’s stupid how aware I am of him. I’ve known him, what? A few days? And yet he’s already embedded himself under my skin like he belongs there.

I stop at a display table of short ankle boots with low heels and nudge one with my toe. “These could work.”

“They’ll break your ankles before the week’s out.”

“Okay,” I sigh. “Function over fashion. Got it.”

We wander into the work boot section, and I can’t help but be drawn to a pair of chestnut leather boots with subtle floral embossing and a reinforced sole. Sturdy. Practical. But still… me.

“These,” I say, picking one up and turning it over.

Walker crouches down beside me and takes the boot from my hands to check the size. “These’ll do. Try them on.”

It’s ridiculous how flustered I get at something so basic.

I lower onto the bench, then pull off my flip-flops, and he kneels in front of me like he’s about to propose.

He doesn’t say a word, just reaches for the thin try-on socks from the box.

The disposable kind every shoe shop has, the ones that feel like half a whisper against your skin.

My heart damn near stops when he reaches for my foot and slips on a sock, then the boot like it’s the most natural thing in the world. Same on the other foot.

“This isn’t a Cinderella moment,” I mumble, staring anywhere but at his face.

“No,” he agrees. “You’re more real than any fairy tale. ”

The words crash into me somewhere near my pelvis. My breath stutters. I glance down, and his gaze is already on me, intense and unreadable. My cheeks flush, heat creeping up my neck.

“Fits?” he asks, voice lower than before.

I nod. “Perfectly.”

He helps me with the other boot, and by the time I’m standing again, I feel steadier on my feet, but not in my head. Not in my heart. Everything in me is on fire, and he hasn’t even touched me more than necessary.

I take a few strides and know these boots are perfect.

We browse a bit more. He’s picky and has opinions on materials, cut, and durability, but it’s weirdly comforting to watch him be so serious about it.

I end up with a few shirts, a durable denim jacket, and four pairs of jeans that don’t hug my hips like a vise.

It’s practical, but… kind of sweet, the way he guides me without taking over.

I also make sure to grab half a dozen pairs of thongs, as I’m in desperate need of new underwear.

Walker pays with an Amex black card as I gather the bags and walk toward the door.