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Because watching Rose in my hat, fiddling with the brim like she was still deciding if she had the right to wear it, made me want to do something stupid. Like grab her hand. Or maybe her waist. Maybe even—hell, I don’t know. But something.

Instead, I did what any self-respecting cowboy would do—I shoved my hands in my pockets and looked at the ground like an idiot.

“Alright,” she said, clearing her throat. “I should probably get back to work.”

“Right. Work.” I nodded like I had a single thought left in my head that wasn’t about how good she looked standing there in the golden afternoon light.

She turned, heading toward the barn, and I was about to force myself to do something productive when she paused and threw a glance over her shoulder.

“You coming, or are you just gonna stand there looking pretty?”

I blinked. “Did you just call me pretty?”

She smirked. “Nope.”

“You definitely did.”

“I absolutely did not.”

“Rose, I heard it with my own two ears.”

She kept walking, tossing a hand up in the air. “You heard what you wanted to hear, Calloway.”

I grinned, shaking my head as I followed her.

Yeah.

I was in big, damn trouble.

And I didn’t even mind.

I followed her into the barn, doing my best not to stare at the way her jeans hugged her just right. Failing, but trying.

Rose stopped near the workbench, hands on her hips as she eyed the bundles of dried flowers laid out in neat rows. “You should feel honored, you know.”

I leaned against the doorway, crossing my arms. “Oh yeah? And why’s that?”

She turned, arching a brow. “Because I don’t wear just anybody’s hat.”

That got a laugh out of me. “Sunshine, I’m the only cowboy you know.”

“Exactly,” she said, smirking as she reached for a pair of shears.

I dragged a hand down my face, grinning despite myself. She was impossible. Absolutely impossible.

“So,” I said, stepping closer, “do I get a say in what you name this operation of yours? Seeing as I’m now the official supplier of headwear?”

She rolled her eyes but didn’t tell me no.

Progress.

“I was thinking something simple,” she said, running her fingers over the dried petals. “Maybe just ‘Solace.’”

Something about the way she said it made my chest go tight. Like she hadn’t even realized what she’d done.

“Solace,” I repeated, quieter now. “That your way of telling me you’re starting to feel at home here?”

She hesitated, like she hadn’t meant to give that much away. Then, finally, she sighed. “It’s my last name.”