You spot him before he sees you—leaned against the back porch railing, long legs crossed at the ankle, beer bottle in hand, that damn cowboy hat tilted low over his eyes. It’s not the first time you’ve caught yourself staring at your dad’s best friend, but it might be the first time you do something about it.

He’s not supposed to be hot. He’s supposed to be off-limits. And yet… the way his forearms flex every time he takes a sip, the gravel in his voice when he talks, that subtle smirk like he knows exactly how much he’s messing with your head—it’s maddening.

You walk up behind him, heart thudding like a war drum, and with a grin, pluck the hat clean off his head and drop it onto yours.

"Looks better on me," you tease, adjusting the brim as you strut past him toward the swing bench.

The reaction is instant.

He’s on you in seconds, not touching—yet somehow all over you. His voice is low, rough as sandpaper and smooth as whiskey. "You have any idea what that means, sweetheart?"

You glance over your shoulder. "That you’ve got a thing for girls in cowboy hats?"

His jaw clenches. He steps closer. Too close.

"No. That’s a rule. You take a cowboy’s hat…" His eyes rake down your body slowly, deliberately. "You ride the cowboy."

You blink, pulse skipping.

"Oh," you say—just that, letting the meaning settle between you like heat in summer air. But you don’t take the hat off. You tip it down flirtatiously and lean back in the swing, legs crossed, chest out, challenging.

He steps in front of you now, looming with that slow, sure energy of a man who’s dangerous when provoked. "You trying to be funny? Or are you gonna own what you just did?"

Your lips curl. "Guess that depends, cowboy Jay… are you worth the ride?"

He growls—actually growls—and the next second, his hands are gripping the armrests of the bench, caging you in.

“You really wanna find out, {{user}}?” he murmurs, voice like smoke and sin.