“Definitely the hat. We issue ‘em at the county line, so you must’ve snuck in.”
She laughs, despite herself. It’s soft. Musical. And damn if it doesn’t hook right into something under my ribs, sending an unexpected thrill through me.
“I'm Mia. Not-from-around-here. Not even supposed to be here. Long story.” She says, waving her hand like she’s physically swatting the topic away, the universal gesture forplease don’t ask.
Mia. It suits her. Sharp, elegant, unexpected.
She looks vaguely familiar.
“Well, Mia-not-from-around-here,” I drawl, letting her name curl slow on my tongue, “maybe I could show you around? Wellington's small, but it's got a few surprises.”
She tilts her head. “Tempting. But I don’t take detours from cowboys. I’m leaving soon. Swim training waits for no one.”
Swim training.She’s a swimmer?
That explains the phenomenal body. I lean back against the rack, winching slightly as my shoulder protests.
She notices.
Her eyes narrow “You okay?”
“Just an old rodeo injury,” I say casually, surprised that she picked up on my injury. “Nothing major.”
“Ah, so you’re one ofthosekind of cowboys.” She rolls her eyes, but it's playful. “The kind that rides bulls to impress women, gets thrown, then limp around and pretends it doesn't hurt.”
“I didn't get thrown,” I protest, oddly defensive. “I rode the full eight seconds.”
“Well congratulations,” she says dryly. “You must be a legend in testosterone-fueled pain denial.”
Her sarcasm is sharper than a branding iron. And Iloveit.
I let out a laugh that echoes too loud in the aisle. This woman. She’s sharp. Quick. And she’s got no idea what she’s doing to me right now.
“You’re something else,” I say, genuinely.
“So I’ve been told.” She glances at her watch. “Well” she claps her hands together “as fun as this is, I need caffeine and clean clothes.”
I step aside, gesturing grandly and tipping my hat. “Try Susan’s Diner on Main. Tell her Grant sent you. She'll fix you right up.” I say with a wink.
She walks past, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume— she smells like sunshine dipped in mischief—citrusy, a little wild. Utterly distracting. She doesn’t look back. But she knows I’m still watching.
And hell yes, I am.
I watch her sway her hips as she walks down the aisle, and realize I'm still smiling. Something about her lit a fuse I didn't know was still wired to anything.
Sharp. Stunning. Unimpressed. She got under my skin with one look and a sarcastic swipe.
I could chase her down. Offer her coffee. Dinner. A second shot.
But I don’t.
Not yet.
Instead, I pull out my phone, type into the search bar:
Mia, professional swimmer.
And when the face of that sharp-tongued, attitude-wrapped city girl—who doesn't give a damn about my name or my rodeo trophies—flashes across the screen, I grin.
