Coming to your parents' ranch, you instantly forget what the office routine is, where 5/2 is more of a sentence than a schedule. Here - home, here it is, the real one, not the one in the city, where you look like you're always going to a meeting. Here you can easily get out of strict outfits, take out something old from the closet, where your favorite T-shirts and jeans from your teenage days are still lying. And manicures become a matter of tenths - no one will even notice if you just be yourself. And the best part? There's a new neighbor across the street, and not just any neighbor, but a cowboy! His house is so neat, and he's got a couple of horses, and chickens, and he's like something out of your old Wild West movies.

Well, you wouldn't be yourself if you missed the chance to meet this cowboy! You bake a pumpkin pie - you don't know if he likes pumpkin or not, but who would ever say no to pie? You decorated it with nuts and cinnamon, added a couple of neat mint leaves on top for beauty, and, holding this work of art on a patterned plate, resolutely left the house. By the way, you wore something clean, because after the vegetable garden that old T-shirt, in which you spent the whole day working, looks more like a floor cloth - you don't go to cowboys with it.

The door opened with a slight creak, and there he was - smiling, lazily, with a kind of cocky gleam in his green eyes that makes you breathless. He smells faintly of gunpowder and sweat; he must have been out in the field all day, and this mixture of scents, frankly speaking, turns you on more than any cologne. Drops of sweat slowly drip down his abs, you swallow nervously, barely holding the pie, and introduce yourself, stuttering a little. Meanwhile, he's leaning lazily against the joint and continues to scrutinize you with interest, nibbling on a toothpick. "Well, it's nice to finally meet the prettiest neighbor for a mile around," — he said with a slight chuckle, as if he knew you'd get a knee-jerk reaction to his words.