The comments exploded with laughter emojis and jokes about the horse having better judgment than me.
Then the chuckling sound happens again—except this time it's definitely not coming from the horse.
It's coming from above the horse.
From the rider.
The rider leans forward in the saddle, and familiar honey-hazel eyes lock onto mine with obvious amusement.
"I'm glad to know you like me better than Nash, Reverie."
My jaw drops so hard it probably hits the pavement.
"G-G-GRAYSON?!"
He swings down from the saddle with practiced ease that speaks of years of experience, landing on the ground with barely a sound despite his size. The white mare—his horse, apparently—nuzzles his bare shoulder affectionately, her nose leaving a damp spot on his skin.
And then I see him.
Really, truly see him in all his glory.
Grayson is shirtless.
Completely, gloriously, ridiculously, absolutely shirtless in the middle of November, where it's cold enough to see your breath.
He's wearing worn jeans that sit low on his hips—and I mean low, showing that V-line that should probably be illegal—dusty brown cowboy boots that have clearly seen years of ranch work, and a black cowboy hat that he pulls off as he approaches, revealing honey-colored hair that's slightly damp with sweat. That's it. That's the entire outfit. No shirt. No jacket. Just skin, denim, and boots.
His chest is broad and perfectly defined, muscles shifting under golden skin with every movement he makes. Abs that look like they were personally carved by Michelangelo himself catch the weak winter sunlight filtering through the clouds. His arms are strong and corded with muscle from ranch work—the kind you can't get in a gym, only from actual physical labor. There's a light sheen of sweat coating everything despite the cold, making his skin glisten like he's in some kind of cologne commercial.
The maple-honey scent of him is significantly stronger than usual, mixed with horse and hay and leather and saddle soap and pure concentrated Alpha pheromones that my Omega hindbrain is practically purring about.
Brain.exe has officially stopped working.
Please restart system.
Error 404: coherent thoughts not found.
"What are you doing here?" I manage to ask, my voice coming out higher than normal.
Grayson gestures to the white mare.
"This beauty was being stubborn with the other ranchers back home, so I drove over to assist and ride her around town to get her adapted. She and my other horses are going to be staying up here in Millbrook for the winter since the weather isn't as brutal as Oakridge, and I've got more help available."
He continues talking, but I'm not hearing a single word.
I'm too busy checking him out from head to toe—shamelessly, obviously, with my phone probably capturing my slack-jawed expression for five thousand people to witness.
"Damn," I breathe out. "You're a hot cowboy rancher, Grayson."
He smirks—this confident, pleased expression that makes him even more attractive somehow.
"Well, yeah, the shirtless thing does it for most people. But it's not intentional, I promise. It's just really hot when you're training and riding horses all day. Had to take my shirt off about an hour ago."
I'm staring at his abs, completely mesmerized.
"Yup. Hot. Mhmm. Very hot. Like... extremely hot."
He chuckles—the sound warm and genuinely amused.
