I wait in Maverick’s, a local cafe, for Cynthia to arrive. I’m out of fingernails to chew by the time she comes through the door and strips off her oversized sunglasses. She spots me immediately and storms toward me, heels clicking on the tiles. She sets her bag down and slides into the booth across from me with a look of pure, icy anger on her face.

“Miss Styles, I’m so--”

“No,” she says firmly. “I’m going to make something very clear to you, little miss matchmaker,” she half-whispers. “You made a fool of me last night. I showed up to his place and stood outside while mosquitos and gnats had a field day with me. By the time I gave up and went home I was sweaty and disgusting. I must have called you at least fifteen times.”

“I know, I’m so sorry. But it’s not exactly within my control to make him show up. If Lucas wasn’t there, we just have to keep trying. If I can--”

She holds up her palm to silence me before speaking again. “I’m going to give you one more chance. I shouldn’t. I should blacklist your ass from here to the coast and you’d still deserve worse, but I’m going to give you one more chance to prove you’re not a complete waste of my time. So you had better come to me with the plan of all plans to make this right, or I’m going to drop you like a sack of shit.”

I reel back a little, trying to catch my breath after the verbal storm I just had to sit through. “I understand your frustration, Miss Styles,” I say quietly. “I will make it up to you though. I promise. There’s actually a local fair today and they are having a little dance after sunset. I think it’d be the perfect way to make a connection with Lucas.

She purses her lips thoughtfully. “The Harvest Festival? That could work. For your sake, I hope it does.”

Amy wears an oversized hat and huge bug-eyed sunglasses while we walk down the main street of Ward’s Creek. The road is completely shut down for the festival, and the sidewalks are lined with colorful tents, vendors selling everything from pumpkins to corn dogs, and places for people to play cornhole and dozens of other games. I think back to the sign we saw on the way into town and guess every last one of the four hundred ninety-seven inhabitants of Ward’s Creek have shown up for the festival.

“This is so cute,” Amy says. Her head is constantly on swivel to take everything in, including the little boy and girl I saw the other night, who run by chasing after the little pig just a few feet in front of us.

“Pete! Come back here!” shouts the little girl.

“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s so quaint. It’s like we’re standing inside a scene from some fifties sitcom.”

“Hey there!” says a cheery man in his fifties who wears a plaid suit and has his thinning hair slicked to the side. “I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting you ladies, but I heard you were in town.”

Amy and I shake his extended hand.

“I’m the mayor of this fine little town, and if you two need anything at all while you’re here, you just don’t hesitate to ask now, you hear? Ask anyone for Mayor Garvey and I’ll make sure I’m over to help just as fast as I can.”

I sneak an amused look to Amy, who returns my smirk.

“That’s really nice of you. Thanks,” I say, waving as Mayor Garvey struts back into the crowd like a peacock, patting backs, shaking hands, and puffing his big chest out.

I head over toward a plexiglass display where a burly man is using a chainsaw to carve what appears to be a beaver out of a log that’s mounted on some kind of spindle. The big man makes broad, precise slashes at the wood as well as small, surgeon-like cuts that start to bring definition to the beaver’s little tail and ears.

Amy and I are caught in the crowd watching for several minutes, but my attention falters when I notice a man standing at the edge of the crowd. He wears a white button-down country-style shirt tucked into blue jeans. His belt buckle, boots, and cowboy hat mark him as a country man as well, but what strikes me most is how familiar his face looks. I can’t quite put my finger on what it is, but when I look at him I keep being reminded of Country.

“Excuse me,” I say to a woman beside me. “Do you know who that man is?”

Back home, it would be beyond ridiculous to ask a question like that, but here, I suspect everyone knows everyone.

Sure enough, the woman nods. “That’s Ronnie Tate.”

“Tate?” I ask. “Is he related to Lucas Tate?”

“Yep,” she says, then she leans in a little closer and looks up conspiratorially at me. “But if I had my pick of the two, I’d take Lucas a thousand times before I even thought of looking at Ronnie.”

I look back to Ronnie. “He’s a handsome guy,” I say.

“Lucas could stain my britches anyday,” she says wistfully, and thankfully she doesn’t catch what must be a totally confused look on my face at the strange choice of words. “Ronnie though? I wouldn’t touch him with a ten foot pole. He’s bad news, sweetie. Best bet is to steer clear of him.”

“Oh no, I wasn’t… Well--thank you,” I say, tugging on Amy’s sleeve and urging her away from the crowd.

My head is spinning a little when we sit down in a shady spot out of view from the chainsaw show.

“You okay?”

“Yeah, the heat was just getting to me. Sorry.” The heat, and the unsettling sense that I’m not connecting the right dots, like I have all the pieces to a puzzle and just can’t figure out how to make them fit yet. I keep trying to figure out what seems so familiar about Ronnie’s face, but my mind is racing and I can’t seem to think straight.

“Did you know that guy? I saw you asking a lady about him. Was that Mr. Cowboy?”

“No. But his last name was Tate.”

“Tate?” she asks, finally giving me her full attention and lifting her sunglasses to rest in her hair. “Like Lucas Tate? The guy you’re setting Cynthia up with? Was that him?”

“No. His name was Ronnie.”

She takes a second look at him. “Damn. If they’re related then there are some good genetics in the family. Lucas must be pretty hot.”

I laugh a little, feeling the sense of unease I can’t place growing to a maddening level. Before I have a chance to think more on it, Country strolls up to me with a half-cocked grin, looking deliciously good in a dark blue shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the crease of his chest muscles and rolled up to display his hard forearms.

The brim of his cowboy hat shades his eyes, but I can see enough to know he’s thinking about last night.

“Mind if I steal her for a bit?” he asks Amy, who blinks a few times and nods, all while gawking at him like he’s a movie star.

I let him lead me away to a place by a tailor’s shop where the crowd seems thinnest. I’m looking at him and feeling the sense of dawning realization grow more and more pressing.

“I wanted to talk about last night,” he says. He plants his hand on the wall behind me and leans in toward me, boxing me in a possessive little space I find myself not wanting to leave. “You seemed spooked.”

“It was nothing.” I scan his face and the connection finally clicks. It hits me like a punch to the gut and I nearly double over from the shock of realization. Ronnie Tate looked so familiar because he must be related to Country. Country, who I never bothered to press for his real name.

“Your name,” I say suddenly, voice hoarse with expectation. “It’s Lucas, isn’t it?”

He squints a little but shrugs, apparently not seeing the big deal.

“Lucas Tate?”

“Yeah. What’d you do, ask someone about me? If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were getting infatuated, darlin’.”

I swallow hard and lower my head. “Yeah. That’s exactly the problem. I’m sorry. I can’t. I can’t do this. I can’t explain--I’m sorry.” The words spill out of me in a jumble and before I know it, I’m already pushing my way through the crowd, leaving Lucas to watch after me and wonder what the hell is going through my head.

Amy spots me coming back and hurries over toward me. “Hey, what did he want? Is he single? Can I have a--”

“Lucas Tate. That was him,” I say.

“Oh,” she says, deflating a little. “Wait… Why are you--no… No. Please tell me that’s not the mystery cowboy you’ve been blowing off work for.”

“Yeah,” I say, feeling like I might pass out. “One and the same. I just--I need a little time. I’m just going to go back to Frank and Martha’s, get on my laptop, and wait to help Cynthia through our planned meeting.”

“Isn’t that going to be weird for you since you kind of have a thing for this guy?”

“I’ll get over it,” I say, even though it’s total bullshit. In truth, my heart feels like it’s being shredded right now, which should be ridiculous since I’ve only known Country--no Lucas--for a couple days, but that doesn’t seem to matter. “I really need to just get out of here and get some fresh air.”

I push back into the crowd, making my way to the bed and breakfast, wanting to be anywhere by myself right now, anywhere away from all these reminders of him.

I head inside, up the stairs, and to my room. I flip open my laptop and make a quick call through the computer to the earpiece Cynthia should be wearing.

“Can you hear me?” I ask once she answers.

“Yeah,” she says.

“Okay, good. We’re going to make a move on him. Are you ready?”

I close my eyes and let out a long, controlled breath. Part of me is screaming to stop, to call this whole thing off and say screw it to the money, but that’s just my heart talking--no not my heart, it’s not been long enough for that to be involved. I have a business to think about. I have Amy to think about. She’s counting on me to land this match and bring in the money.

The only thing to do now is push Cynthia to making a date so my hands will be tied. If he falls for her, he’ll be off the table, and I’ll be able to move past this stupid mix up and get on with my life and my career. But what if I don’t want to move on from Lucas?

I push it all down, trying to quiet my thoughts so I can just think. “When you find him, you need to talk about something. Small talk is fine, but it’d be better if you could get him to talk more. Ask him some questions, make him talk about himself and make sure he sees you’re interested. Mimic his body language if you can--it’s a subconscious cue that you’re interested in him.

“Okay,” she says. “I hope you have some tricks up your sleeve, too, or you’re going to be packing your bags tonight.”

“Bitch,” I mutter, but I’m careful not to press the key that activates my mic. “Yes, Miss Styles,” I say into the mic with forced cheer. “Don’t worry. We’re going to get you another date, and a dance.”

“Good,” she says.

A few minutes later, after a lot of rustling sounds from her microphone, Cynthia finds Lucas. “Hey you,” she says in a bubbly cheerleader voice that screams of fakeness.

“Oh, it’s you,” he says. I catch myself leaning in close and pressing the headphones to my ears. Does he sound upset? Is he still thinking of me?

With considerable mental effort, I stop trying to think about him as the guy I just slept with last night. I totally need to stop thinking about his big strong hands. Those work rough fingers pumping in and out of me… that wicked tongue… I definitely shouldn’t think about the vulnerability I saw in his eyes as he talked about his dad. I can’t let myself think of him as my Country. I have to start thinking about him as Lucas, the target. He’s just the guy I’m trying to get my client a date with. That’s all. Nothing more.

“Remember, no mention of the missed date,” I say.

“I’m surprised to see you here,” she says. “You never come to these things.”

“Yeah, well there was someone I was hoping to see,” he says. I can hear the pain in his voice and it rips at me.

I did that. I hurt him. I chose my job over him.

“Oh?” asks Cynthia. “Well I guess it’s your lucky day, because… Tada!” she yells obnoxiously.

I clap a hand to my forehead in frustration, trying not to picture the grimace Lucas is likely wearing right about now. “Remember. Focus on him. Ask him about himself.”

“So,” Cynthia says quickly. “Do you still do the whole rodeo thing?”

“Not since dad died, no,” he says stiffly.

Damn. He’s totally trying to get out of this conversation. A stupid part of me does a little happy dance, because I don’t want him to get over me. But that’s selfish. I made my choice, so it’s not right for me to hope for him to pine away for me. Besides, he’s barely known me two days. It’s just a fling. That’s all. He’ll get over it and I’ll get over it. Probably.

“Change topics,” I say. “Ask about his cows,” I suggest, even though it feels like a shot in the dark.

“How are the cows doing?” she asks, failing to sound interested.

“Well, Missy is back to her usual nonsense,” he says. His voice is stiff at first, but a little bit of amused energy starts to enter his words as he talks about the cows. “She’s been sneaking out of the fence to get at some of the wildflowers, and now she’s trying to convince the others to go rogue with her.”

Cynthia laughs in a totally unconvincing way, but Lucas doesn’t seem to notice as he goes on for at least five minutes about his cows. I can’t help listening dejectedly as I imagine him smiling and laughing with her. Why isn’t he picking up on how fake her responses sound? Why is he enjoying himself with her?

Even though I start to feel serious temptation to sabotage her chances, I stay focused on my job when the conversation about his animals dies down. Most of his good humor seems to slip away when the subject changes as well. “Okay, here’s your chance,” I say. “Ask him if you can meet him tonight at his place. Make sure it doesn’t sound like a date--just coffee and a chance to catch up.”

To my surprise, Lucas grunts his agreement when Cynthia fumbles through her attempt to invite herself over.

I sit back with a mixture of relief and disgust while Lucas makes his excuses to head back home and Cynthia says her goodbyes.

“I did it!” she squeals into the mic a few moments later. “You had better hope he shows up this time,” she says, switching from giddy to bitchy in a surprisingly short amount of time.

“He will,” I say. Because he won’t be eating me out in a lake at sunset this time.

My stomach lurches when I think about him, especially when I think about the possibility that he could somehow fall for Cynthia, that he might put his hands on her and make her feel the way he made me feel. I can’t stop the selfish thoughts. I don’t want him to make anyone else feel that way. I want that to have been our moment. I want it to be special and perfect and one-of-a-kind, because I know I’ll never experience anything like it again.

I sink forward, cradling my head in my hands, wondering how I managed to get myself into a mess this big. I pull out my phone and my thumb hovers over Cynthia’s name in my contacts list. Just call her. End this whole thing. Come clean with Lucas.

I shake my head at myself. This is ridiculous. I’m a professional and I can do this. There are other attractive men out there. It’s not worth throwing my business away because some cowboy from the middle of nowhere charmed the pants off me--literally. Except he doesn’t flirt, apparently. He wants. And he wants me. At least he did want me. I hate how even the thought of him sends butterflies through my chest and makes my fingers tingle.

I’m going to do the smart thing. I’ll wait in my room and I’ll be ready to help walk Cynthia through the date. Probably.