Before I can do something insane, like physically remove my own mother by force, someone slams into my side hard enough to send me stumbling a few steps.
A moment later, icy-cold seeps through my white T-shirt.
“What the fuck?” I spin toward the offender just as a plastic cup bounces off my chest and rolls under my truck.
The woman’s got one hand clutched around a phone, the other still hovering like she meant to stop the spill and failed. My mouth opens to snap at her, but then our gazes lock.
And my brain short circuits.
Of course.
Of fucking course.
Wide, green eyes flare—brighter in the daylight than I remember. She looks like she’s about to apologize, but then… recognition, irritation. And a flash of something hotter, low and dangerous, before it cools to pure frost.
Her giant bag’s sliding off her shoulder, dragging an oversized black sweater with it, exposing an expanse of creamy skin and freckles I shouldn’t be drawn to, but am.
And that just pisses me the hell off.
I tilt my head back, glaring at the sky like it’s the one to blame, and mutter, “Anything else you wanna throw at me today, dickwad?”
Georgia Walker scoffs loud and exaggerated, snagging my attention. She’s clutching her phone tighter—like she might chuck it at me next—and the wordsI fucking dare you, almost slip free from my dry throat.
“Youran intome!” she chokes out, her vision raking down my drenched shirt. “And you spilled my coffee!”
“I was standing still,” I growl, tugging the offending material away from my skin. “And now I’m soaked in whatever overpriced, too-sweet bullshit you’re drinking.”
“Wasdrinking. Now it’s gone because you were rooted like an overgrown tree in the middle of the sidewalk,” she snaps, her cheeks burning bright red. “All giant arms and cowboy boots and—and—” Her eyes flick to my hair, my boots, my general existence. “Broody!”
“I don’t brood,” I grumble.
She arches a perfect brow and points at me. “You’re brooding right now.”
I cross my arms, tension coiling tight through my shoulders as I take her in—messy bun, more freckles than I’d originally thought, that fierce little chin lifted like she’s ready to fight me.
There’s a splash of coffee on her jaw and a fallen curl bouncing loose around her face, softening all those sharp, sarcastic edges. The urge to reach in, to wipe the coffee off and do something idiotic liketasteit, is intense, but I shove that shit down where I bury all the inconveniences in my life.
Woman’s trouble dressed in tight jeans and curves.
Much as I hate to admit it, today's outfit looks damn good on her. Hell of a lot better than the stuffy suit, though the heels did snag my eyes more than once.
Still, she’s rude, stuck-up, and out of place.
Georgia Walker belongs in a city. Big buildings, shiny cars, endless crowds—somewhere she can judge people from behind a desk instead of on my porch.
Everything about her screams polished, professional,not from here.Just another city girl playing country for the weekend, counting the minutes until she can get back to her real life and the fuck out of mine.
We have a silent stare off that results in my jaw ticking and my palms sweating, so I tuck them into my pockets. She follows the movement.
Her eyes don’t come back up.
Rolling back on my boots, my lips lift in a cocky-as-shit grin, because apparently, fucking with Georgia Walker and pissing her off is my new favorite pastime.
“Eyes up here,darlin’.”
Don’t know where the heavy accent comes from, maybe I’m emulating Griff’s Tennessee drawl, but it makes her blush, and I love the look of it.
She jolts her gaze to mine, and every inch of her is all wildfire.
