The river sounds louder as I approach, hidden behind thick cottonwoods, aspens, and ancient pines. This stretch of water cuts through the eastern edge of the ranch and has been our favorite swimming hole since we were kids.
The second I step through the trees, I stop cold.
Jovie.
Well, hell.
She’s stretched out on a blanket near the riverbank like some kind of dangerous daydream.
A Raintree-Storm Rodeo Academy ball cap shades part of her face.
Aviator sunglasses cover her eyes.
Her blonde hair is braided into two ropes that drape over her shoulders.
And the tiny white bikini she’s wearing ought to be fucking illegal.
I remain perfectly still behind the trees.
Mostly because my brain has forgotten how to function.
The late evening sun glows across her skin. One leg is bent and the other stretched out.
She lazily turns a page in the paperback resting against her stomach.
Geezus.
Why can’t she be the girl I remember—with braces and skinny knees? The one who wore ripped jeans and oversize hoodies, not bikinis that barely cover her perfect, not-so-skinny, curves-in-all-the-right-places body.
Because this woman? She looks like she walked off the cover of a swimsuit magazine.
My jaw tightens.
I should turn around. Leave before she notices me. Because this is dangerous territory.
Very dangerous.
Not only does she belong to my brother, but we work together.
And nothing about the direction of my thoughts feels remotely professional.
Yeah, I should leave. Before I do something stupid.
I take one careful step backward.
Then another.
And promptly step on a fallen branch.
Crack.
The limb snaps beneath my boot, and one end whips upward like a damn catapult and slams directly into my shin.
“Son of a—”
Pain explodes through my leg.
I hop sideways, grabbing the nearest tree.
