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Hank’s mouth sags open, all tongue and disinterest. He snorts. It’s crushing.

Not that he’s wrong. Sweet baby Jesus, what am I doing?

None of this was supposed to be real. When the producer asked if I’d grown up “with horses and all that authentic rodeo stuff,” I’d smiled, tossed my hair, and said, “Oh, absolutely. I’ve been riding since I was a kid. I’m a pro at horses.” I said it with so much confidence I half-believed it myself.

Now I say it again, hoping repetition will make it true. “I’ve been riding since I was a kid. I’m a pro at horses.”

My phone glares up at me from the passenger seat, highlighting the last notification from the production company reminding me that filming starts in seven weeks. Right under it is a message from Silas Carrington.

Horse trainer guy

I’ll meet you at the main ranch office at nine.

I flinch. It’s now nine twenty-three and a half. Holy moly. I bang my palm on the steering wheel for courage and mash the gas, fishtailing a little as the ranch finally comes into view.

The gate is a monster. Wrought-iron bars as thick as my wrist, Carrington crest dead center, two hulking stone pillars on either side. The drive behind it runs forever, straight as a knife, flanked by live oaks and blanketed with white gravel that throws blinding reflections up into my face. Past the first hill, the sleek shoulder of a metal building flashes in the sun.

I roll to a stop just in front of the closed gate, engine hiccupping. My ribcage vibrates with nerves. Sweat prickles under my bra band, and my hairline feels like someone’s gone over it with a glue stick.

But then I see a tall cowboy propped against the corrugated wall, boots spaced wide, thumbs hooked in his belt loops. He’s tall, handsome, and all raw heat. Easily six-two, with a broad chest that looks way too good in a faded gray T-shirt that fits him a little too well. His brown hair is the kind of wild, shaggy cut that looks like it’s never seen a comb but somehow just works. There’s a sharp cut to his jawline, the sort of geometry that could get a girl in serious trouble.

As I pull forward, he kicks off the wall, stands straighter, and it hits me: this cowboy has trouble written all over him.

His gaze tightens. Zero smile. I swear my mouth goes dry on the spot. He lifts one brow, and those dimples flicker like a warning.

I’m in so much trouble here.

Our eyes lock through the windshield, and for one embarrassing split second, I’m so flustered that my foot slips off the brake. The car rolls forward a few inches, and I stomp to catch it, my face flaming. Just kill me now.

He doesn’t blink. He saunters toward me until his shadow falls all over the hood. Up close, his deep chocolate eyes are a total knockout. He doesn’t smile. Just tips his chin and waits.

I struggle with the window button and finally get it down. Sun knifes into the cab, instantly kicking the temperature up another five degrees.

Silas leans one forearm on the car roof, so the fabric sinks under his weight. He peers inside. His voice is low, rough. “You’re late.”

I open my mouth, scrambling for an excuse, but he’s already looking past me into the back seat.

His brows crash together. “Why the fuck’d you bring a dog?”

Hank stares straight ahead, dignified, not about to dignify this with a response.

I swallow and square my shoulders, heat blooming up my neck. “He comes everywhere with me. He’s my emotional support animal.”

Silas takes a full step back and sizes up the situation like he’s just realized there’s a bomb in the car, and it’s wearing a harness. “Emotional support animal?”

“Yes.” My voice comes out stubborn and tight. “He helps me to survive the stress of everyday life.” Plus, I just like having the furry little guy around.

“You have him buckled in a car seat.”

“He’s a passenger.” I say it like there’s no other possible explanation. “I don’t want him injured if we’re in an accident.”

Silas leans down, bracing both hands on the car’s roof, and stares at the backseat so hard I think he wants to interrogate Hank directly. They engage in thirty seconds of silent battle.

I’m sweating bullets, but Hank is serene. It’s kind of heroic.

Silas finally shakes his head, like he’s trying to clear a bad dream. “Dogs don’t ride in car seats.”

“Maybe not your dogs, but my dog does,” I shoot back, then immediately regret the edge in my voice. Holy moly, I need Silas’ help. Stop trying to piss him off, I growl to myself. “He won’t be a problem,” I say, softer this time. “He’ll stay out of the way.”