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PROLOGUE
WINNIE
Who would have thought losing your virginity to a handsome cowboy in the bathroom of a bar would be so hot?
The Winnie of two weeks ago would be disgusted by the Winnie of right now’s actions. She’d be reminding me of the rules, the three things I’ve been repeating to myself over and over since I started my little quest to find myself.
1: Don’t accidentally get knocked up. The sexy cowboy has a condom on, and at first it’d felt a little weird when sliding in, but I don’t feel it anymore. I can’t, because he’s so big. I won’t tell him that, though.
2: Don’t get accidentally married in Vegas. Fantastic advice, but unnecessary, because I’m nowhere near Vegas, and have no plans to make the trip. And I doubt the small town cowboy thrusting into me wants to leave, either.
3: If the above happens, make sure you get the man’s name. I have yet to do that, but I make sure it goes on the mental checklist before I leave and plan to never see him again.
Cowboy pulls back, slowing his roll, hitching my leg higher and changing the angle of his strokes. A moan bubbles free before I can stop it. Damn, I didn’t think sex could feel this good, especially the random hookup kind.
In the orange light of the bathroom—which keeps flickering red, eerily enough—I barely make out his features. If I have to guess, he feels really good about himself right now. Which means he’ll keep doing what he’s doing.
“That’s it, honey, just a little longer,” he murmurs, voice low, gravelly. Damn, I like the way he speaks. He has a slight southern twang that might be from a childhood spent in the south. But when he touches me? Circling my clit with the rough pad of his thumb?
I buck into his hand with a whine, only just stopping myself from crying out.
Cowboy claims my lips, swiping his tongue against mine, and picks up his pace again. Everything, from the rowdy country music muffled by the voices and cheers from the dance floor, all the way down to the sudden explosion of pleasure shooting through me, turns to static in my ears.
Thank goodness for his mouth, because the sound that tries to burst free is a little embarrassing, and it would definitely give us away.
The cowboy’s movements become choppy until he slumps into me with a groan. He breaks the kiss first, head dropping to my shoulder, and for a moment, we stay like this—my ass barely staying on the sink, one leg hiked up around his waist, him still buried inside me, dick twitching—for a heartbeat.
The silence stretches for a little too long, so I pat his shoulder. “Alrighty cowboy, you’ve had your fun,” I grunt, already feeling the ache between my thighs. “Think of me like the wind.” I pull my leg free and snatch my panties. “Disappearing.”
He frowns as he fixes himself, tossing the condom. “Alright, honey.”
I take several steps before I hear my sister-in-law’s voice in my head screaming at me about rule three. So, I turn sharply. “Name. Now.”
The cowboy raises a surprised brow, the frown deepening. “Max Gilbert,” he mutters, tightening his belt.
I smile, give him a nod, and go on my way. Max Gilbert. Ugh. Despite the growly demeanour, what a cute name?
Too bad it has to end.
1
MAX
7 MONTHS LATER
The entire main street of Maple Lane Falls is essentially under construction for the annual Fall Festival. Can’t turn a corner without running into a damn pumpkin. The fuckers are everywhere, and I’ve picked my fair few the last couple of days in preparation. To say I smell like them is an understatement.
I scrub a hand down my face as I pull into Maple Lane cafe on the corner of Maple Lane and Moss. God, even they’ve leaned into the whole fall festival theme. Cobwebs, lights, pumpkins at the doors. There’s a flier about the auction happening at the festival requiring volunteers. I can’t help but roll my eyes. It’s the same thing year in and year out.
Normally, it doesn’t get to me. Normally, I can go on about my life without giving it too much attention. I do my part on the farm, get our contribution to the festival, and don’t think twice about it.
But as a breeze picks up and blows dried fall leaves across the street, my mind forcefully goes back seven months to a small bar outside of Male Lane Falls and the women from it.
Her honey-blonde hair fills my dreams; the soft waves I ran my fingers through still a whisper against my hands. I still feel her mouth, still hear her moans, and worst of all, I can’t go a late night alone without remembering what she felt like. The way she moved against me, how she felt as I pressed against her, and unfortunately, how well I filled her.
Fuck. I stop and rub my eyes in an attempt to wipe her from my mind, but it does nothing.
I’ve found myself a little too obsessed with the sweet out-of-towner, and there’s no way I’ll ever see her again. The chances of her coming back to Maple Lane Falls are slim. I should have gotten her name when she demanded mine, but I’d been so caught off guard by her sudden change in demeanour, I hadn’t considered it.
