I yank open the truck door and throw myself in, tossing the prescription on the passenger seat.
Slamming the door harder than needed—just for effect, just to get the frustration out before the town bulletin reads:
“Local Cowboy Prescribed Yoga—Is Grant Taylor Turning Zen?”
Hell. No.
But apparently… twice a week, I am getting bendy.
I tug my hat lower and sigh. The world doesn’t pause for broken cowboys. I need a plan. A cold drink. Or maybe just a damn miracle.
But even as I drive, my shoulder aches like it’s agreeing with him. Shit.
Looks like I’m going to yoga.
I head out to Wellington and decide to stop at the Millman's Department Store before heading into the office. Mom's birthday is next week, and I still haven't found her gift. Lily mentioned that Millman's just posted they received a shipment of those fancy bath products Mom loves.
The store's unusually quiet for a weekday morning, the kind of silence that hums beneath fluorescent lights and stale country music playing overhead. I nod to Max behind the counter and make my way toward the section Lily described. Boots scuff lightly against tile as I round the corner into the women's department—and nearly shoulder-check a rack of brightly-colored summer dresses.
“Whoa—sorry about that,” I say, steadying the soft body in my arms.
“Oh, I... I'm so sorry,” a soft voice replies, cool and clipped, but with the faintest flicker of embarrassment tucked under it.
That’s when I see the crime scene at our feet: a small pile of red lace and satin that must’ve slipped from her armful of clothes.
Underwear. Not just any underwear. The kind designed to kill men like me.
Well now.
Without thinking, I bend to pick it up, the lacy material slipping between my fingers. It’s lingerie. A damn pretty one, too.
I hear a sharp inhale above me.
“I can get my own underwear, thanks,” she snaps, but there’s a waver in it. A flicker of panic trying to hide under the attitude.
My eyes track up from the lace, slow and unbothered, trailing up perfectly defined legs, up her thighs, pausing at her waist—an instant uninvited thought of which I would grip first, crashes into my mind—before I look up at the woman standing frozen in front of me, arms full of clothes, cheeks flushed a deep, satisfying pink. That kind of blush you don’t see often. Real. Uncontrolled.
My eyes catch hers—and the air leaves my lungs like I just got bucked off a bronc. Everything around us stills. The world doesn’t just slow—it waits.
Fuck.
Remaining crouched, I let my eyes drink all of her in—her hair’s dark and messy in that way that looks like she didn’t try, which means she probably tried just the right amount. Ocean-blue eyes. Full mouth. Flushed cheeks that say she’s mortified—and maybe just a little curious. Fitted tight black top hugging curves in all the right places, long toned legs wrapped in a skirt that shouldn't legally be allowed to tease that hard.
She’s beautiful. But it’s more than that. It’s the tension in her shoulders, and the way her dark brown hair sits in waves over her shoulders, the wild flicker in her eyes, the way her lips part like she’s torn between yelling at me or bolting. She’s not just stunning—she’s fire barely held in check.
Still crouched, still holding her panties—Jesus, what a sentence—I tip my hat like I’m not entirely undone. “Sorry, ma’am. Just tryin’ to help.”
Her eyes blow wide and her blush deepens to something criminal.
I should hand them back. I really should.
But I don’t. Not yet.
I straighten up slow, real slow, keeping my eyes on hers. She swallows. Good. That means she feels it too.
Finally, I dangle the lingerie between us like it ain’t the most distracting thing I’ve touched all week and let a slow, crooked grin pull at my mouth—the one that usually gets me out of trouble. Or deeper into it.
For some inexplainable reason I want to keep her right here for as long as I can.
