Page 11 of Boulder's Weight

Did he track me here or something?

Is this some kind of coincidence?

Wait, I sound like an idiot. His charter is here, duh. He’s a prospect at the Mexican charter.

Before I can decide what to do, he's sliding onto the stool next to mine, that cocky grin firmly in place.

"Well, well, Montana," he says, his voice exactly as I remember it. Deep. Rough. "Didn't expect to see you in Mexico. You following me or something?"

I force myself to stay calm, to match his playful tone. "You wish, Rock." The nickname slips out before I can stop myself, a reminder of our night together.

"Rock, huh? That's new."

I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant even as I’m racing through the possibilities.

Is he just here by chance? Does he know who I really am? "Boulder, rock... same thing, isn't it?"

He laughs, signaling the bartender for another beer. "So what brings you to Chihuahua? Vacation?"

Relief washes over me.

Okay, good. He doesn't know anything.

He thinks this is just some wild coincidence.

And why wouldn't he?

To him, I'm just Kelsey from Tart.

The girl with the black eye who fucked him in a bathroom and disappeared.

"Something like that," I lie smoothly. "Needed a change of scenery for a couple of weeks."

"Hell of a change. Montana to Mexico?"

"Go big or go home, right? I never take time for myself, so it seemed like a good choice." I take another sip of my whiskey, praying he doesn't notice how my hand trembles slightly. "What about you? Did you have a good time while you were in Billings?"

"I did, it was nice to see the family. Back to prospecting now." He gestures around vaguely. "Home sweet home."

"Home is in Billings, though, isn’t it?"

"Home is where you make it, and Chihuahua is my home now." His eyes scan my face, and I wonder if he can see the panic rising in me. "Small fucking world meeting you in a bar like this, huh?"

Small fucking world indeed.

Of all the places in Mexico, I had to end up in the bar he strutted into tonight.

"Yeah," I manage. "Small world."

Boulder leans in closer, and I catch his scent—leather, cedarwood, and something distinctly male.

I don’t know how to put my finger on it. It’s a musky scent. But, a good sort of musk.

It triggers memories of that night in Montana, of his hands on my body, his lips on my neck.

Heat rushes through me, unwanted but undeniable.

"So, you planning to disappear on me again tonight, Montana?" he asks, his voice dropping to that low rumble that had done things to me the last time we met.

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