Two hands—big, unapologetic—grab my ass like they’ve got history there.
I jolt upright, heart bouncing off my ribs, halfway between a scream and a full on swing, when a deep voice rumbles behind me, all confidence and zero shame.
“Damn, how’d you know that’s my favorite position?”
My brain short-circuits. My heels? Wobbling. Mybalance? Gone. My grip on reality? Left the second I entered this town.
I suck in a breath then let out a scream that probably just popped all the tires on this trailer. I spin around so fast, I knock over the soap dispenser and come face to face with a man I most definitely didnotinvite to grope me.
His face shifts from cocky to “what-the-fuck” in under a second.
“Oh, shit,” he blurts, jerking his hands back like he just touched a cactus. “You’re not?—”
Nope. I don’t even let him finish. Pure survival mode kicks in. I slap the faucet off, spot a butter knife in the sink, and wrap my fingers around the handle like I’ve been training for this exact moment.
“Back away,” I snap, holding it between us like it has the power to do actual damage.
But then I actuallylookat him.
And now I’m having a very inconvenient realization.
Because this man? He’s gorgeous.
The kind of gorgeous that makes your common sense take a quick trip to Cabo.
He’s tall—annoyingly so—with broad shoulders and a chest I’m now very much picturing without a shirt. His hands look rough in thatknows-how-to-fix-a-truck-but-also-might-ruin-your-lifekind of way. Tattoos trail down his arms, half-hidden under rolled sleeves like they’re trying to play hard to get. His hair—god, the hair. That modern mullet situation is peeking from under his cowboy hat, like even his haircut couldn’t decide whether it wanted to be respectable or reckless.
Spoiler: it chose the latter.
All of it is put together with those hazel eyes—big andsultry—lingering on me like he’s got nowhere else to be, unraveling me bit by bit.
There’s the mustache. The sun-kissed skin. The boots that have clearly lived harder than my Louboutins ever will. He looks like he was plucked straight from a country music video. And possibly banned from a few.
He is, quite literally, made of everything women warn each other about in group chats.
And don’t even get me started on his smirk. That slow, cocky curve of his mouth like heknowswhat he looks like. Like he’s been getting away with murder and bad behavior since birth. He smells like cedar, leather, and very, very bad decisions.
Yeah, this man was obviously dangerous in more ways than one.
Meanwhile, I’m still holding a knife. And considering using it… mostly on myself for finding this situation even a little bit hot.
"Easy there, sweetheart."
“Easy? You think you can just sneak up and grab a woman like that? If this is your version of Southern hospitality, you’re getting a one-star review, cowboy.”
“Whoa,” he drawls, slow and shameless. “I ain’t even gotten to the good part yet. You sure you wanna rate me this early?”
“Oh, that wasn’t the worst part?” I scoff. “Fantastic. Good thing I’m the one holding the knife.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just grins the kind of grin that says he’s talked his way out of worse. Then he leans against the counter, arms crossed and casual like he’s settling in for a chat.
“Before you go all stabby on me,” he drawls, “I didn’t mean to grope a stranger. Thought you were someone else.”
His gaze drags over me, slow enough to make my blood boil, before his eyes find mine again, daring me to react.
“How lucky for her,” I snap. “Let me guess—do you even know her name?”
“Didn’t catch it.” He winks. “But tell me yours, and I’ll be sure to remember.”
