It’s impossible to miss the patterns in the crowd. I’m not talking about behavior quirks or transportation preferences, although those might be part of the package. I spy so much plaid and denim that feeling left out is almost mandatory. There are enough cowboy hats and belt buckles to host a rodeo. As a self-proclaimed taste tester, sampling this rustic style is just beyond the initial trial phase.
A blast of air conditioning chills my skin as I stride through the sliding glass doors of Valley Market. The grocery store resembles a Hy-Vee, but on a smaller scale. That doesn’t stop the space from buzzing with weekend activity.
A laundry list of yummy goodness forms in my mind as I wander to the cart corral. It’s never wise to go shopping on an empty stomach. The meal plans stack up faster than I can track ingredients. I absently tug at a cart sticking out on the end. Nothing happens. That gets my attention, knocking me from my food stupor. I put in more effort but struggle to remove one from the bunch. They’re all wedged together in tight formation. Kudos to the attendant for shoving them in with such precision. I giggle to myself, thinking about Vannah cackling over that last comment.
I shake my head and get back on track. With more force than I probably needed, I yank backward. Not even a single squeak of metal. The damn things don’t budge. I exhale harshly, blowing stray hair off my forehead. Next comes a little mental stretch to prepare for war. I grip the handle and wrench with all my might. There’s barely a wiggle.
On my next futile attempt, I ram an elbow into an unforgiving surface. Since I don’t have a wall behind me, it’s safe to assume someone just got jabbed in the gut. My innocent victim releases a muffled grunt, confirming the worst. I hang my head as a wash of humiliation singes my cheeks. My hopes of making a good impression are dashing off faster than the power-walking supermoms in aisle four.
“Whoa, easy there.”
I spin on my heel at the gritty timbre, feeling like a spooked horse. Is he trying to soothe me? Make sure I don’t trigger a stampede? Those thoughts vanish as I take my first decent glance at the man.
When I picture a hunk of farm-raised hotness, Scott Eastwood from The Longest Ride pops into my brain. This guy couldn’t be farther from that stereotype. He’s dark and broody without leather chaps or a Western shirt in sight. Broad shoulders, toned muscles, and a trim waist fill my vision. His white T-shirt is tight enough to hint at a set of defined abs. It’s no wonder my arm is still vibrating from the impact. Without shame, I admit my mouth waters at the idea of tracing those washboard lines. I would gladly volunteer to scale him faster than a hayloft ladder.
The logo on his hat is familiar. Carhartt has a recognizable enough stamp, even to someone detached from country style. I’m pretty sure their apparel is made with heavy-duty labor in mind. Back home, the brand is popular with the hipster crowd. I have a feeling this guy didn’t choose the label to be trendy. Maybe he’s more purposeful about his fashion statements than I’m giving him credit for. He makes a ball cap look ultra-sexy, regardless of his purpose. As if hearing my thoughts, his stare bores into me from the shadows under the curled brim.
The chance to offer a polite apology and salvage my manners is vanishing with each stilted breath. I nearly choke on the buckets of sand lodged in my throat. “Shit… I mean, shoot. I’m really sorry. Are you okay?”
Painful silence is all that greets me. It seems the stranger is too busy giving my body a full scan. I shift my weight from the blatant perusal. The need to fidget needles at me. Is he sizing me up because I’m seriously lacking in the height department? A tiny nudge from me certainly wouldn’t result in serious damage—to his flexing physique or otherwise. To be fair, anyone over six feet makes me look like a shrimp. I wait several seconds for a response, but he remains disturbingly quiet.
Taking the hint, I creep toward a stack of small baskets and prepare to sulk off without causing further injury. “Um, okay then. I’ll just be moving along.”
He blinks at me, drawing attention to his alluring gaze.
“Wow, are you wearing contacts?” I squint at him like some sort of stage-five creeper.
If possible, his frown dips lower. “No.”
“I’m aware that it’s super weird for a stranger to randomly ask. Your eyes are just really blue.”
“And yours are brown,” he deadpans.
Speaking of, I’m not scoring any brownie points with this guy. “Solid observation. Isn’t it rare to have light eyes with dark hair?”
“Can I question the same for your blond hair and dark eyes? Unless you use dye.”
I gasp, twirling a loose strand around my finger, holding it out for inspection. “This color is natural, thank you very much. And I’m really leaving now. Sorry again for the bang.”
There goes the remainder of my dignity. I press my lips together to trap more nonsense from spewing out, futile as it might seem. The damage is already wreaking havoc on my pride.
The man’s harsh mask cracks, a slice of amusement twitching his lips. I catch a twinkle in his eyes while that slight humor grows into a crooked grin. My earlier assessment is no longer valid. He isn’t the hardcore, surly sort, other than his resting dick face—also known as RDF, for future reference. It’s almost a relief to see the expression I came across so often in high school and college.
