Page 4 of Second Chance Spring in Paradise

I’ve got to help this woman—who’s now wearing only my favorite shirt and a pair of underwear I’ve been up close and personal with—find her clothes. Without looking at her.

“Coming. Keeping my eyes down.” I step through the trees and, even though my gaze is lowered, the woman’s toned, tan calves are in my line of sight.

The hardest thing I’ve ever done is give up rodeoing. Second hardest thing was staying on a horse rightfully named, Satan’s Fury, for the longest eight seconds of my life.

Both of those seem like a piece of cake right now as I force my eyes not to drift past this woman’s knees.

“Thank you again,” she says in a shaky voice while standing to the side to let me pass. “I’m probably only going to live long enough to get the rest of my clothes before dying of embarrassment.”

I laugh, but I donotlook at her. Of course she’s funny too, just to make things harder. Why not stick some burrs under the saddle to really make sure I get thrown?

“That would be a shame,” I say. “I’d hate to not be able to laugh about this over a cup of coffee.”

I have this reflex where I can’t help but flirt with beautiful women. Words come out of my mouth before I can stop them, and I will tip my hat to a lady faster than you can say, “ma’am.” I’d keep myself out of a lot of trouble if I thought about what I was saying before I said it. But, if I were thinking man, I never would’ve ridden my first bucking horse, or made a career of it.

“My name’s Rowdy Lovett, by the way.” I blurt out the words before she can respond to my coffee invitation.

“Rowdy?” She’s behind me, but not close. Her voice sounds less shaky as it travels the distance between us like a melody. “That’s your real name? Or a nickname?”

I huff a laugh. She’s not the first person outside of Paradise to ask that question. “It’s the one my parents put on my birth certificate.”

“So, they’re the kind of people who go looking for trouble?” Now there’s a lilt to her words that’s somewhere between flirting and nervous.

“You could say that. They definitely found it with me.” I veer off the path toward the towel, but only make it one step before the sound of skidding gravel is followed by a yelp.

Without thinking, I turn and see her on her hands and knees in the dirt. My white shirt hangs low on her in the front and very, very high in the back. I quickly turn and look from the sky to the ground, listening for any sound of her getting back on her feet.

“You okay?” I rub my suddenly sweating palms on my pants and glance over my shoulder.

“Yes. Just slipped.”

She swipes at her eyes and bends down to tie her shoelaces, before I turn back around. Seeing her near tears feels like more of a violation of her privacy than seeing her naked.

“Any bruises?”

“Mostly just my ego.”

“Yeah, I’m familiar with that feeling.” I step my way through weeds and thistles as quickly as possible to get to the towel. The sooner this woman is clothed—or toweled, or whatever—the better.

“Wait,” she says. “Did you say your last name is Lovett?”

“Yep.” I reach the towel. It’s twisted around a tall, spikey weed, and by the time I get it untangled, my arms and bare chest are covered in scratches.

“As in Lovett’s Spring? Like, you own it?” she asks as I make my way back to the trail; not a simple task when I have to keep my eyes pointed up or down instead of straight ahead.

“Yep. Though most people call it Second Chance Spring.”

“Oh, I’m aware, as you probably guessed.”

“I might have had an inkling that’s how you got yourself into your current… predicament.” I can’t hold back my grin as I toss the towel to her.

She catches it and quickly wraps it around her waist. I forget to look away for that part. She’s doesn’t look like she’s as tall as me, but close. And her curves are in all the right places. I’d know her if she lived here, and my brief glimpse of her bikini tan lines tells me she lives somewhere warm. California, if I had to guess.

“Yeah, thispredicamentjust keeps getting more and more humiliating.” Now that she’s dressed, she already sounds more confident.

She smooths my shirt over her makeshift towel-skirt thing, then her eyes run over my chest. When they finally meet mine, they’re the color of the sky on a clear day. “Let me guess what happens next—I’m a writer, so I’m very good at figuring out plot twists—you’re the sheriff and will have to arrest me for trespassing.”

Everything this lady says sets the corner of my mouth to tugging. “Close, but not quite. Volunteer deputy, and I’m going to let you off with a warning this time, ma’am.” I tip my hat, because there’s that reflex problem again.

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