Page 10 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“And the other half?”
“Good tequila.” She grins widely.
She wipes her hands on a flour-dusted apron, then leans an elbow on the counter, eyeing me with open curiosity. “So, you’re staying in town for three months? That’s exciting.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You fishing for info for the rumor mill?” I tease.
Kitty laughs, utterly unbothered. “You walked into Honeyspur. We trade stories faster than we trade pies.”
“Well, if I get these tarts every day, it’s probably worth it.”
Kitty chuckles. “Careful. They’ve been known to cause addiction.”
I laugh and lean back in my chair, already reaching for the second tart. “I can tell.”
Her gaze flicks toward the window, and she lowers her voice just a bit. “You know, most of the women in this town have been trying to catch the eyes of those Wild Hearts boys for years.”
I blink. “Really?”
She gives me a slow, meaningful nod. “Mm-hmm. But none of them ever stuck. Those guys are the kind who know what they want, and I guess no one’s been good enough yet.”
Something in the way she says it makes goose bumps rise on my arms. Not a warning exactly, just a quiet truth.
“Lucky me,” I murmur, half to myself, half to the custard tart, which is suddenly the safest thing to look at.
I’m halfway through the tart, sipping my latte and watching the town move like a live-action snow globe, minus the snow, when a familiar figure across the street catches my eye.
Cash.
My stomach does a wild somersault. He’s standing there with that same quiet confidence, one hand on his hip, casually scrolling through his phone,completely unaware that he and his pack brothers broke my brain this morning just by existing shirtless. That image is burned into my memory in high definition, and no amount of caffeine is going to blur it out.
I straighten in my seat, realizing that I’ll be living at the same ranch as these men. For three months. With nowhere to hide.
My brain tells me to look away. My body pretends it doesn’t speak the language.
Of course he’s here. Of course I’m suddenly hyperaware of the fact that I’ll be staring at that jawline for the next three months. Someone really should’ve put a warning label on this whole situation.
He’s now leaning against the entrance to Santos Rodriguez’s Feed Store, and even from here I can tell his jeans should be classified as a public safety hazard. Then he turns the phone screen toward an older man working there. They both glance at it… then look straight at the café.
Straight at me.
“Shit,” I mutter, ducking behind my latte like a coward and praying Kitty’s foam art is thick enough to block their line of sight.
Nope.
Cash says something to the man, pockets his phone, and starts crossing the street with that infuriatingly confident cowboy walk that makes my ovaries threatento unionize.
The bell over the bakery door chimes, and suddenly the air feels ten degrees hotter.
“City girl,” he drawls, touching the brim of an imaginary hat like he’s in a spaghetti Western. “Fancy meeting you at this café.”
“It’s a small town,” I reply, trying not to gape at how stupid good he looks in that fitted Henley. “Fancy meeting anyone anywhere.”
His grin spreads, lazy and lethal. “Fair point. Mind if I join you?”
Yes. No. Maybe. My brain stutters like a dial-up connection.
“Free country,” I manage.
