I want to be the next Alice Waters, though I don’t see a French Laundry in my future. Never been much of a cook. But astack of fork-to-table books that set the new standard for organic food production? Yes, please. Legendary gardens overflowing with abundant vegetables and fruits? Absolutely.
“Thank you for your help,” I say with a polite nod.
He tips his cowboy hat. “Ma’am.”
The road to Off-Duty Ranch winds and curves through some of the most pristine wilderness I’ve trekked since this road trip began. I pass a large, brown doe by the side of the road. Big black nose, floppy ears, large eyes, and a frenetic hesitancy by the side of the road that has my foot hovering on the brakes.
“Don’t dart out. Please don’t dart,” I half-beg, half-pray until I pass her.
Further down the dirt road, a rising knoll gives way to lush prairie and a meandering river. A bald eagle soars above its cresting currents, majestic and deep in mid-hunt. Tall grasses sway lazily in the wind, and horses and cattle graze in the shadow of looming, snow-dusted peaks.
Michael Pollan’s long gone. Replaced by Morgan Wallen, Jason Aldean, Chris Stapleton. I belt out “White Horse” at the top of my lungs, my voice cracking and straining—more bear caught in a trap than songbird crooning.
The GPS cuts in with occasional directions in lofty feminine tones. My heart jumps in my throat as I finally reach the ranch gate and follow the long drive. In the distance, I spot a massive, muscular man, bare-chested and bent over row after row of greens. He wears a well-worn brown Stetson.
Thick corded arms. Broad shoulders. Burnished gold hair and a square-cut jaw felted in afternoon stubble. Thick eyebrows, shadowing guarded storm-gray eyes. A well-proportioned nose leading to the most kissable lips I’ve ever seen.
I catch myself. Thoughts like these are where danger begins. He’s too big, too strong, too obviously military. I can only hopehe’s Anson’s son or grandson, and that I won’t have to deal with him beyond introductions. I bring the car to a stop, roll down the window.
“Can I help you, Miss?” The gravel in his voice sparks across my skin, crackling like fireworks in July, lighting me up in places I don’t dare acknowledge. There’s something oddly familiar about it, too.
“Name’s Lacey Worthington. I’m here to see Anson Baxter.”
He grimaces, removes his gardening gloves and Stetson, and runs thick fingers through unruly hair. He hesitates, tension thickening the air.
Is there a problem? Some reason he doesn’t want me to meet Anson?
Suddenly, he crosses the distance, wiping his hand on his jeans before offering it to me. Incandescent sparks flare along my palm and fingers where we touch. “Anson Baxter, that’d be me.”
At this closer distance, I notice a long scar running the length of his chest, another upsetting the stubble along the left side of his jaw, down his neck, and along the length of one arm to the wrist. His eyes sharpen, and I look away, ashamed at how I’m staring.
“Oh.” Heat spreads through my cheeks. “I thought you’d be older … a lot older.”
He scowls, putting James Dean to shame. “Thirty-one. Will that be a problem?”
Three years older than me and hotter than hell. Great.
I blink hard a couple of times, trying to find the right words. Simple question. Should have a simple answer. His scowl carves shadows deep into his face, his eyes dragging heat and warning across my skin.
He’s danger. Trouble. Something I know far too much about. Sandalwood, spice, evergreen, and a faint tang of beer. It makessense for a lazy, late-afternoon lunch on a Friday. But my spine goes rigid, my heart flutters, my insides tremble. Maybe this is a mistake. Maybe I should go.
But no. I have to be professional. I have to do this … for my career, for myself. “Shouldn’t be.” I swallow hard, unconvinced by my own words. “It just means I might approach the story from a slightly different angle.”
His smile spreads wider, teeth flashing. His thick, work-hardened fingers linger longer than they should over mine. Or maybe I’m the one who should let go. Only it feels too good to.
Suddenly, his hand drops, leaving me with a hollow ache I can’t quite name. My pulse trips over itself, reckless and betraying.
“Pull around the side.” He nods towards a makeshift parking lot in front of an outbuilding. “And I’ll show you my carrots.”
My breath hitches as I watch the massive, shirtless man saunter away.
Chapter
Two
ANSON
Lacey parks while my mind races. Words that meant little before now wash over me with a weight I can’t shake. A week. She said she’d stay for a week, devote a chapter of her farm-to-table deep dive to Off-Duty.
