And I can tell it’s working—her pulse kicks and she looks everywhere but at me right now.
“Wasn’t expectin’ to catch something quite this interesting today,” I say, voice low and lazy as a summer drawl, my grin curling at the edge of my mouth.
She scowls, lips tightening. “Yeah well, Congratulations. You’ve officially won the award for Most Inappropriate Thing to Be Holding Right Now.”
I chuckle, as she snatches the lace from my hand, our fingers brushing. A spark of electricity coursing through my arm.
She stuffs the panties into her pile like it burned.
Damn, she’s fun. I’ve wrangled bulls with less attitude than this woman’s throwing right now.
“Don’t reckon I entered that contest, darlin,’” I say, stepping in just a hair closer. Not touching. Just letting her feel the heat from my body. Her pulse flutters at her throat “but I’ll take the win.” I say with a wink.
There it is—snap.
The air thickens. Her mouth opens like she’s ready to argue, but nothing comes out. Eyes locked. Breath caught. Those baby blues… they hold fight, sure. But there's something else buried in them now. A flicker of curiosity.
She’s tall, her eyes nearly level with my chin. That close, I can see the flecks of green in her deep blue irises, and it’s like the room narrows to just her—like gravity’s got a favorite now, and it sure as hell isn’t playing fair, because my damn heartbeat forgets its rhythm for a second.
“Do you always help strange women pick up their underwear?” she asks, one brow arched, full of mock challenge and wicked amusement.
A single strand of hair is caught near her temple, fluttering just slightly with each breath she takes—and before I can stop myself, my hand moves. Fingers brush her cheek, slow anddeliberate, tucking that rebel piece behind her ear like I’ve got every right.
She stills.
Doesn’t pull back.
Doesn’t say a damn word.
Justwatches—those sharp, sea-glass eyes locked on mine, unblinking, unreadable. The moment stretches—tight and charged, like a held breath that no one wants to release. For one long heartbeat, everything stops but her eyes on mine.
I let a slow smile curve across my lips, the kind that usually works like a charm. “Only the pretty ones,” I say, letting the words land soft and easy as I extend my hand. “Grant Taylor.”
She looks at it. Then at me. And back again.
Doesn’t take it.
Just tilts her head slightly, eyes narrowing like she’s trying to decide whether I’m dangerous or stupid. Then-
“Is that supposed to mean something to me?” Her voice is smooth, completely unimpressed—and it might be the sexiest thing I’ve heard all year.
I blink.Huh.
For the first time in years, I'm momentarily speechless.
That’s new.
Most people around here know my name and either want a favor or a photo.
Everyone in this part of Texas knows the Taylor name. Hell, most of the South does. But this woman? Doesn’t care. She just stares.
First time in a long while someone’s looked at me like I’m just some guy in a department store, that was holding a pair of panties.
“You're not from around here,” I state the obvious, recovering.
“What gave it away? My lack of a cowboy hat or my complete disinterest in your local celebrity status?” Her words are sharp, but there's a hint of a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
That does it. I bark out a laugh—genuinely—and lean back against the rack, giving her a little space but not too much.
