Very smooth, June. Ten out of ten.
The warmth inside is immediate and welcome. I take a moment to let the feeling return to my face, then approach the front desk, where a woman sits, staring at a computer screen.
It’s Barb. We’ve met at approximately seven hundred town functions—she brought those dry lemon bars to the last townpicnic—but she’s looking at me now like she’s never seen me before in her life.
Fair. I probably look like a disaster. I didn’t even glance in a mirror before I left.
“Hi, Barb.” I pull out my best I-am-a-competent-member-of-society smile. “Here to pick up someone. Pete should have called ahead?”
She blinks at me slowly, then takes a long, deliberate sip of her coffee. Maintaining eye contact. Establishing dominance.
I wait.
She sips.
We’re really doing this, I guess.
Finally, she sets the mug down with a pointed clink and raises one eyebrow. “Name of the person you’re picking up?”
Right. I dig my phone out of my coat pocket and pull up Pete’s text from earlier, scanning the message. “Seth Benton,” I say.
Something flickers across her face before her expression smooths back to professional boredom. “Wait here.”
She disappears through a door behind the desk, and I turn to survey the waiting area. There’s one other person here, a guy in the corner who looks like he lost a fight with a hay baler, staring at me with intensity.
I give him my sweetest smile, the one that says,I will end you if you try anything, and deliberately turn my back to claim one of the plastic chairs against the wall. I check my phone again. No new messages. The rodeo has been in town for four days now, and every motel is booked, every restaurant packed, and tourists are wandering the streets in brand-new cowboy hats, asking if we have Uber.
We don’t. We barely have reliable cell service on a good day.
Finally, a door at the back of the station swings open, and a female deputy emerges.
She’s hauling a guy big enough thathaulingis probably an optimistic description. He’s more like… shambling under her guidance. A slow-moving mountain of a man, head down, dark hair falling over his forehead as he mumbles something that might be song lyrics.
Actually, no. It’s definitely song lyrics.
He half sings, half slurs the words to “Sweet Home Alabama,” his voice a low rumble that reverberates through the lobby.
The deputy shoots me a look that clearly says,Good luck with this one, and adjusts her grip on his arm as they approach.
“You sure you want this big lug?” she asks, sounding like she’s offering me a burden rather than a human being.
“Does he have any other options?” I stand up, trying to get a better look at him. He’s still not lifting his head, too focused on his private concert.
He continues to sing, seemingly lost in his own little world right now.
“Not at two in the morning, he doesn’t, as he’s not going back to the bar after the chaos he created,” the deputy confirms. “He’s all yours if you think you can handle him.”
“Lucky me. And yeah, I’ve reined in bulls before.” I approach them, and that’s when I finally get a proper look at what I’m dealing with.
He’s tall. Six-two at least, maybe more, with the kind of shoulders that look like they were designed to fill doorways. Even slouched and swaying, there’s no hiding the breadth of him. He’s thick through the chest, strong through the core, with powerful legs. I’m five-six, so compared to him, I’m tiny, but I’m not backing down.
He’s wearing jeans and boots. His shirt is charcoal or navy, hard to tell in this lighting, a button-up that probably looked crisp hours ago but has since surrendered to whatever trouble led him here. It’s untucked on one side, and the sleeves arerolled to his elbows, revealing forearms that make my mouth go dry.
Holy mother of?—
They’re ridiculous. Corded with muscle, dusted with dark hair. His hands are big, fingers long and capable, and there’s a faint scar visible across his knuckles that suggests tonight’s fight wasn’t his fight.
He’s swaying gently, still humming under his breath, head still ducked so all I can see is dark hair, shorter on the sides, longer on top, and that shadow of stubble along a jaw.
