A movement at the far side of the barn caught her eye.
Someone stepping into the light.
Okay.
That was not what she’d been expecting.
Caitlin had said he was Burke with a different hat. What she’d failed—completely—to mention was that he was basically a Lucchese boot ad come to life.
He moved toward them with the kind of unhurried confidence that didn’t ask permission. Tall. Lean. Built from actual work, not a gym membership. His shirt clung in all the wrong-right places, sleeves pushed up, forearms marked by sun and labor.
And there was nothing polished about him.
Izzy felt it anyway—a quick, sharp awareness that landed low and unwelcome.
Grant Scott stopped a few feet away.
Too close to ignore. Not close enough to touch.
His stride slowed almost imperceptibly.
Dark hair spilling loose around her shoulders. Long legs beneath fitted denim. Silk against gravel. City confidence standing in the middle of his farm like she’d somehow wandered onto the wrong movie set.
She looked wildly out of place there.
And beautiful enough to immediately irritate him.
Something flickered across Grant’s face before his expression flattened back into controlled indifference.
Burke saw every second of it.
Oh, this was going to be entertaining.
Grant’s gaze shifted briefly toward his brother.
Burke lifted his coffee slowly, a grin already threatening.
Grant shot him a subtle death glare that clearly promised violence later.
Then he looked back at Izzy like none of it had happened.
“Izzy Moreno,” Burke said.
Grant touched two fingers to the brim of his hat. “Ma’am.”
Izzy lifted a brow. The “Ma’am” felt less like a courtesy and more like a fence line he was drawing between them.
Okay, fine, her brain conceded, a tiny, treasonous pulse thrumming in her throat. Fine. He’s a masterpiece. In a rugged, I-haven’t-seen-a-skyscraper-in-a-decade kind of way.
Izzy Moreno didn’t do rugged.
She did intellectually stimulating.
Preferably with men who had soft hands and better manners.
She stepped forward—deliberately violating his personal space to shift the balance. Up close, he smelled like sun, leather, and something clean—not the chemical oud of Denver lounges, but something real.
“A cowboy?” she asked. She kept it cool, the tone she used when an artist tried to overcharge for a mediocre installation.
