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“Well, I’m saying something about bags,” I retort, taking a deliberate step away from my suitcase and pointing at it. He might as well put those ginormous muscles to use. Those sweaty, glistening, completely naked muscles …

Cruz stares me down for a long moment, neither of us bending. Until finally, with a smirk, he says, “Okay, Princess. Want me to carry you over the mud while I’m at it?”

The idea of being scooped up in this man’s large, strong arms sends something akin to butterflies dancing through my lower stomach, but I refuse to let him know that.

“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”

He chuckles, the sound low and deep and not at all helpful to the current butterfly situation I’ve got going on.I frown harder.

He strides toward me, effortlessly lifting my suitcase off the ground as if it weighs nothing at all, and marching out of the barn. I follow after him. His back to me, he inclines his head toward the truck parked out front, tossing my suitcase unceremoniously into the bed with a loud clunk.

I wince. That suitcase is part of a set I got for my birthday last year. Anexpensiveset.

“Get in,” Cruz says, hopping into the driver’s seat.

I do as he says, clamoring into the passenger side. He grabs a wadded-up t-shirt from the dash, pulling it over his head and down his torso. It doesn’t help to dampen the appeal of him. Well, thephysicalappeal of him. Personality wise, so far he’s not making a very favorable impression.

He doesn’t even wait for me to buckle before he’s backing up and heading down the dirt road.

We ride in a somewhat awkward silence for a few moments before Cruz breaks the ice. “So you’re Theresa’s niece, huh?”

I nod. “Yeah. I’m staying here for the summer.”

“Where are you from?”

“Seattle.”

He grunts like it’s a bad thing.

“So, what’s there to do around here?” I ask. “When the Uber drove through town it seemed rather … desolate,” I admit. I truly hope there’s more to Cedar Ridge, Montana than that pathetic strip of town we’d flown past in the span of about sixty seconds.

Cruz snorts. “Desolate?” he echoes. “I think I’d use the word peaceful.”

I bob my head, looking out the window. I suppose a cowboywouldthink that. Isn’t that their whole schtick? Living off the land and all that?

Although I suppose “peaceful” is exactly what my mother intended for me to find out here.

I try to push thoughts of her out of my mind.

Cruz gestures to the window. “I mean, look around. Look at thosemountains,” he says.

I duck my head to better see out the front window. He’s right. From what I’ve seen of Montana so far, it is pretty gorgeous. Despite the fact that I spent about an hour of my day trudging down a dirt path with a heavy suitcase in tow.

“Sure, but pretty scenery isn’t everything. What do youdo?” I reiterate.

Cruz shoots me a look like I’m crazy. “You sit on your porch and youlookat it.”

Hm. I can see we don’t exactly share the same idea of “fun.”

He chuckles softly, and there those fucking butterflies go again. The contradiction of his looks and personality is stark.

“What doyounormally do for fun?” he asks me.

I shrug. “You know, normal things. Going out with friends, attending parties, drinking.” Typical twenty-five-year-old stuff. I shoot him a sidelong glance, suddenly wondering how old he is. He seems to be about my age, maybe a bit older. I’d peg him in his late twenties.His shaggy dark hair is disarmingly hot, and if I’m not mistaken, he’s part Latino.

He scoffs and shakes his head.

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. “What, are cowboys above partying or something?”