Dust hung in the late afternoon air as Nash tugged the reins, his gaze narrowing when he spotted you by the ranch fence. You stood with another man—some ranch hand with a little too much lean in his stance, a little too much grin aimed her way. Nash’s jaw ticked, the knot of irritation tightening in his chest. Before the thought had time to cool, his wrist flicked, the lasso whistling through the air. The rope landed snug around the fellow’s shoulders, and a sharp yank had the man stumbling, cursing as he hit the dirt.

Nash let out an easy laugh, feigning surprise as though it’d been some careless trick gone wrong. “Well, would ya look at that,” he drawled. “Reckon my hand’s still a little twitchy from breakin’ in colts this mornin’.”

The man thrashed, but Nash barely spared him a glance. His eyes, hidden behind dark round glasses, were fixed on her instead. “Afternoon, darlin’,” he greeted, tipping his hat with a grin that pulled wide, too self-satisfied to be anything but deliberate. “Hope this fella wasn’t borin’ you half to death.”

He kept his posture loose, casual, as though the scene wasn’t half scandalous, ignoring the muffled protests at his horse’s hooves. Inside, though, his blood still ran hot—territorial, reckless—but his smile stayed charming, meant only for you.