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Chapter One
Georgia Hightower looked down at the heel of her new boot and closed her eyes. “Shit.”
Literally.
’Cause she’d stepped in a big pile of cow crap on the side of a country back road in the middle of Shelby County, Texas. Not to mention she was also out of gas and craptastically lost. So much for remembering the shortcut into Holly Hills.
Georgia hobbled to a clump of tall grass and tried to rub off the offensive cow patty she’d stepped in when she rounded her BMW looking for a reason why it sputtered and died.
How did cow poop get on the side of the road anyway? She darted a glance at the fence lining the road and noted it was recently repaired.
Oh.
Having somewhat successfully removed the foulness from the Kate Spade riding boots she’d spent a quarter of her paycheck on last week, Georgia stood and shaded her eyes, looking up one side of the country road and down the other for a sign of life other than the dumb cows behind her.
Nothing.
She turned back to the cows chewing cud. One heifer looked blankly at Georgia while the rest of the herd munched on clover. Maybe the cow wondered why a woman would stand sweating in a Burberry jacket just so she could look posh when she rolled into town? Or maybe the cow questioned why Georgia had been so shortsighted as to not check the gas gauge before taking a road she was no longer familiar with?
Georgia sighed. “Don’t judge me, sister.”
Pulling out her cell phone, she moved around, searching for a signal.
Nothing.
“Ugh,” she said, looking back over at the brown heifer. “You’re right. I’m a total dumbass.”
She should have known better. She’d spent the first eighteen years of her life in the rural community surrounding her. Full tank of gas, jumper cables, and a spare tire were necessities on the long stretch of country road.
A flash of white caught her eye. Two-ton pickup heading her way.
Thank God. She was already late to help decorate for her best friend’s bridal shower.
She ran around the front of her car as the truck hauling ass down the farm-to-market road approached. She lifted a hand to flag the driver down, but the Texas-sized truck blew right past her.
What the hell?
Had something happened to Texas men while she was otherwise occupied on the East Coast? The men she’d grown up with lived for this kind of rescue shit, doffing their beat-up cowboy hats, calling damsels in distress ma’am or darlin’.
She heard the truck’s brakes squeal, and the big truck started backing up.
Okay, that was better.
Drawing parallel with her, the driver lowered the passenger window. “You need help?”
No. She stood out here waving her arms because she was friendly. “Yeah, I sorta ran out of gas.”
She couldn’t tell much about the guy because his face sat in the shadow of the cab, but she could see the cowboy hat and hard jaw. He shifted gears and eased his truck in front of hers, leaving it running as he climbed from the cab.
Georgia knew cowboys were her personal crack, but she’d been in rehab for the last eight years, living on the East Coast, dating guys who thought western wear was Ralph Lauren. So when long legs encapsulated in a pair of dark-blue Wranglers, broad shoulders in a traditional pearl-snap Western shirt, and a gray Stetson moved her way, she repeated the mantra she’d started in her head when she crossed the Texas state line.
You do not want any of that. You do not want any of that.
The cowboy smiled as he approached, and dear God, he was pretty as a bluebonnet with a broad forehead, kind blue eyes, and a clean-shaven hard jaw. Classic good-looking cowboy, like a young George Strait, chasing her mantra away.
“Ran out of gas, huh?” he said with a lazy drawl, taking in her and the black convertible, the glint in his eyes tacking on an unsaidthat figures.
“Yeah, that’s what the gauge tells me,” she said, noting his height. She was an even six foot... and he was a good two or three inches taller.
