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“Where you headin’?” he asked.
“Holly Hills.”
“Well, I can give you a lift into town, but I have to make a stop first.”
Georgia hesitated a moment before answering.
A V formed between the man’s baby blues before he raised his eyebrows. “Oh, yeah. Taking rides from strangers.” He walked toward her and stuck out a hand.
She looked at it before placing her own in his warm grip. His hand was large, nails manicured. A good strong hand to shake. “I’m Reed McCormick. I’m a vet around these parts.”
“I’m Georgia and I’m... visiting for the Holly-Hampton wedding.”
“So now we’re not strangers,” he smiled, dropping her hand. “Don’t worry—I won’t bite or kill you.”
Georgia hooked an eyebrow. “Well, I don’t mind a little bite now and then as long as I’m left with a pulse afterward.”
Flirting, Georgia? Really?
“Well, you don’t have to worry about me. I’m usually on the receiving end of the bites. I don’t give them.” He paused, making a face. “That didn’t come out quite right.”
Georgia gave a snort and scooped her purse from the front seat. She had no other recourse but to accept a ride from the good-looking Texan. No one else had rolled by in the last ten minutes. “I’d appreciate a lift, assuming neither one of us is going to use our teeth.”
“I’ll keep my mouth shut,” he said, gesturing toward his truck, moving toward the passenger side and... yeah, being a Texas gentleman and opening the door for her. She’d missed that.
“Thanks,” she murmured, catching the scent of something woodsy and masculine as she brushed by him. A large-animal vet who didn’t smell like moldy hay? Nice.
And then she remembered the cow poop on her boot.
Well, hewasa vet. Cow poop was probably bacon and eggs to him.
Even so, she prayed the expensive perfume her rat-bastard ex had given her last Christmas hid the telltale smell of manure.
Yeah, this was a great way to come back to the town she’d left years ago, swearing she’d never return. As former white trash, she’d intended on rolling into town in her Beamer, wearing designer clothes, a stylish new pixie cut, and sporting a badass attitude.
Instead, she’d arrive depending on the kindness of a stranger... with cow shit on her shoes.
Yeah, some things never changed.
* * *
Reed McCormick glancedover at the woman who sat next to him, expensive bag perched in her lap, cow shit on her boots. Georgia wore a designer jacket, a TAG Heuer watch, and drove a luxury car. He knew the type too well. No, thanks.
But he wasn’t dead.
The woman was a beauty with short hair that could have looked manly if not for the feathery pieces of hair brushing her high cheekbones. She had a bold jaw, soft full lips, and could nearly look him in the eye. Long, lean, and smartass.
Sexy.
Been a long time since he’d seen a woman with that much power... with that much chutzpah.
“So where you from?” he asked, clicking his seat belt.
“I live in Boston.”
“East Coast girl, huh?” he asked, putting the truck in gear and heading down the road toward the Milligan farm, where a mare in foal awaited. “You don’t sound East Coast.”
She looked over. “I said I lived there, not that I was from there.”
