Page 2 of The One Who Never Left: Colter

Her accidental hero was the man she'd been hunting for—but absolutely was not ready to meet—and definitely not while holding a box of tampons.

Because there, dressed in that fitted shirt that was rolled at the sleeves—showing strong forearms—and dark jeans that hugged just enough to hint at the power underneath, was Dr. Colter Callahan of 23179 Callahan Ranch Drive, Bridlewood, Montana—the new owner of the Full Barn Animal Clinic and the man Sutton had spent the last three years searching the country for.

Her pulse ricocheted through her veins. Every muscle locked. A hot flush crawled up her neck and her scalp tingled with shock. He was real and he was in front of her. No longer the grainy photo her private investigator had given her or a social media thumbnail. He was a six-foot-something wall of good-looks and absolute charm.

Did she mention trouble? Because, yeah, he was that too.

Even in casual clothes, he looked like he could handle a ranch, a clinic, or a herd of horses, all while smashing Ladies Night at the local bar. Up close, his height and build made him feel almost larger than life, the kind of man who could fill any space he stepped into.

Her lungs forgot their function. Her brain scattered. And her stupid heart pumped like it recognized him before her logic could intervene.

Great. Fantastic. She was ovulating for a man she was legally, morally, and emotionally obligated to hate. God help her, he was even better-looking than the stake-out photos. Bigger than the pictures she'd found while stalking him online. Broader. Taller. More everything.

His mouth curved slowly with a hint of wicked to finish it off.

"Careful," he said, stretching out the words like they weren't in a rush and elongating that A like a true Midwesterner. "If you stare any harder, you're gonna set me on fire."

Heat shot up her neck and she scrambled for composure. "I wasn't⁠—"

"Speechless," he said, handing her the tampon box like he was gifting her the moon. His fingers brushed hers—totally and completely on purpose. Asshole. "Happens a lot when women meet me for the first time. It's a whole epidemic."

Her jaw snapped shut, hard enough to sting. She'd heard the rumors about him being a playboy, but she hadn't been prepared to have that charm aimed squarely at her. Somehow it pissed her off—and disappointed her in a way she hated acknowledging.

"You think highly of yourself," she said.

"Only because you're looking at me like that."

"Like what?"

"Like you're trying to remember how breathing works."

She snatched the box from his hand and stepped back before she melted right there on aisle twelve.

"You were reaching over me," she explained. "It startled me. That's all."

He leaned one hand against the cart, relaxed confidence rolling off him in waves, eyes glinting with amused disbelief. "And here I was hoping it was my rugged charm."

"It was not."

"What's wrong with my charm?"

"Your charm is fine," she said, with the enthusiasm of a woman rating a root canal.

"Fine?" His brow shot up, wounded theatrically. His voice dipped into mock offense. "That might be the harshest thing anyone's ever said to me."

She fought the smile tugging at her mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "I'm sure you'll survive."

"Oh, I will." His gaze flicked to her lips, which began to tingle in a way they had any right to be. That look felt like a fingertip trailing down her sternum. "Anything else I can help you with? Wine? Chocolate? My number?"

Her stomach dropped and adrenaline surged—stupid adrenaline. This could not be happening.

"Thanks for the help, but that's a hard pass."

"On the wine or my number?"

"Both. I don't drink. It causes me to make stupid decisions—like fall for a playboy's charm."

"Now you're falling for me?"