I glance over my shoulder and catch a guy watching me.
Not just a guy. Acowboy. Or at leastcowboy-adjacent. Tall. Broad. Worn denim jeans that hangjust right. A white T-shirt stretched across a chest built by bad decisions, with a pearl-snap flannel tied low around his waist. There’s a trucker hat shadowing his face, and boots dusted like he just stepped off a damn horse. Scruff on his jaw, a toothpick between his lips, beer in his hand.
His biceps should be illegal. His jawline should be studied. And his eyes? Blue as the sky on one of those days you wait for all winter.
We make eye contact. He smiles, and I smile back.
He does this thing with his eyes.
“Hey,” I say as I pass, trying to sound braver than I feel. “Can you not stare at me like that? I’m not into guys right now. Taking a break. Not accepting applications.”
“Oh, is that so?” he fires back. Damn. Sexy-as-hell voice? Check.
“Yeah. Please keep your eyes to yourself.”
He looks away and holds out a napkin.
“I just thought you should know you’ve got ketchup on your face,” he drawls—drawls, like we’re in a spaghetti western and I’m the fool with mustard on my blouse. And to make matters worse, he taps a spot on his stubble right below his lips on his chin, and hands me the napkin.
I freeze, mortified.
Then I dab my chin with my finger.
A little bit of that red bleeds.
So I use the napkin he just handed me to wipe, then die.
He turns and walks away before I can think of a single comeback. Just a casual shrug, a knowing smirk, and those damn jeans striding off into the sunset.
And that’s when it hits me.
This low, thrumming ache curling in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a spark. My skin goes prickly. My breath forgets how to be normal. My thighs—traitors—tense like they’ve just remembered what desire feels like.
Whatisthis?
It’s not a crush. It’s not a fantasy. It’s not evenhope.
It’s raw. Chemical. Like my body recognized something before my brain could catch up.
And I hate it.
Because I’ve spent the last three months building walls, closing doors, and taping a “No Trespassing” sign over my damn heart.
But one smirking cowboy in faded denim just kicked the whole damn thing in—without saying a word.
No,I tell myself, silencing the stirrings in my head.Cassie, hold your horses.
So what if a tall, maddeningly handsome cowboy happened to cross into my orbit?
It’s meaningless. Flirtatious glances happen all the time. This is just something I’ll need to get used to now that I’m single.
Single.
I exhale slowly as I make my way toward the stage, where the Dust Devils are set to start in about an hour and a half.
I’m still getting used to that word. This isn’t exactly how I imagined spending my thirtieth birthday—alone in some unfamiliar Mississippi River town in corn country, clutching a beer and a hot dog like they’re life rafts. I’m getting used to being alone, because I’m worried now that this might be my forever fate, so I may as well just manage it.
I thought I’d be settled by now. Kids. A house. A man who kept his promises. Who I didn’t have tofakeorgasms with.
