“I won’t.”
“—I’ll save you a dance.”
“I’d rather eat glass. You know me. I don’t dance, don’t sing.”
He pulls up near the house, and I’m already reaching for the door handle. “I need to change,” I say. “Tell them I’ll be out soon.”
“You got it.”
I climb out of the truck, and Carter’s voice stops me. “Hey. About the scent-match thing.”
I turn back.
“Go make yourself pretty. You look like shit.”
I flip him off again and head for the house.
The front porch wraps around the entire first floor, white railings and hanging flower baskets filled.
A faint laugh that sounds familiar comes from the group.
Instead of going inside, I move along the porch, boots quiet on the wooden boards. The wraparound design takes me past windows and rocking chairs until I reach the corner where I can view the backyard.
There’s a small group gathered near the horse pen, photographers setting up equipment, some of the circuit crew, and a few people I don’t recognize. Local press, maybe, or sponsors. My dad is there too, talking to a woman in a blue dress who’s taking notes on a clipboard.
The laugh comes again, and my eyes track the sound.
She’s standing near the fence, one boot propped up on the lower rail, talking to a photographer. Her back is partially to me, but I can see enough.
Tight jeans that hug every curve. Cowboy boots. A Western shirt in rust-red, fitted close through the waist. Her sleeves are rolled to her elbows. Brown hair is up, piled on top of her head in some kind of messy twist, but I can see the curls trying to escape.
She laughs again at something the photographer says, her head tipping back, and even from this distance, something about it calls to me.
I can’t even see her face, but she’s really fucking cute. I don’t know her. At least, I don’t think I do. But that laugh…
She turns slightly, gesturing at something in the distance, and I catch a glimpse of her profile. Absolutely stunning beauty, big eyes, and a bright smile.
Who is she?
4
JUNE
The sun is deceptively cheerful this morning, bright and golden. The breeze cuts cold across the ranch, sharp enough to make my nose run, but I’m not complaining. After last night’s adventure in bail-and-babysit, I’ll take any excuse to be outside instead of lying in bed staring at the ceiling and replaying every embarrassing moment on a loop.
“You smell like my scent match.”
Nope. Not thinking about that. Or blue eyes, rough voices, the way my traitorous body responded to a stranger’s scent like it had been waiting for him my whole life.
I’m here to help out Belle. She’s currently crouched near the horse pen, checking the equipment. My gear is with her too. Her purple hair flutters in the breeze, buzzed short on one side, the rest sweeping on the other side and down her shoulder in a dramatic wave that somehow looks effortlessly cool instead of ridiculous. She’s wearing a green floral dress with thick black tights and black boots, a leather jacket thrown over top.
Meanwhile, I’m in my favorite rust-red Western shirt, jeans that I’m pretty sure have a coffee stain on the thigh from this morning, and boots that have seen better days. My hair is piled on top of my head to get it out of my way.
“Okay, here’s the plan,” Belle begins. “I’m handling action shots, horses, movement, all the dramatic stuff. Once I’m done with all the guys, they’re yours for headshots. Shoulders and up. You can watch me work the action shots if you want some insight.”
“Sounds good.” I set down my bag and start checking my own equipment. Everything is there and ready. I love that I can do part-time photography gigs, as I don’t see myself working forever in real estate. “Any particular look we’re going for with the headshots?”
“Rugged but approachable. Sexy but wholesome. The kind of face that makes women swoon and sponsors write checks.” She winks. “Basically, just make them look like the fantasy cowboys everyone wants them to be.”
