“Fallon Veronica White!” Mom’s voice crackles on the recording. “Where the hell —”

Delete.

I listen to a few more messages from Mom and three from the agency.

An orange tabby, purring with its tail curled in greeting, trots right up to me. Aside from the lit up bar and grill a few steps away, the two of us are the only signs of life in the tiny business district.

The quiet is divine.

“Hey, there little one.” I scratch behind the sweet kitty’s ears while listening to the rest of my messages. A few from concerned friends, and one from my realtor saying my apartment has already been leased.

That’s good news in a string of good news.

The last message in the queue is from the agency’s international division. I recognize the European number on the caller ID. My thumb hovers over the play button.

If they’re calling me direct, it’s got to be a prestigious job.

But I don’t want any more jobs — even prestigious ones.

I pivot my thumb over the delete button.

I don’t care how big the assignment is. Do I?

“What do you think, Butterscotch?” The name fits. She weaves around my legs and purrs as though she approves of her new name. “Listen or delete?”

Meow.

“Avoidance.” I swipe out of the app — neither listening nor deleting. “Good call.”

I get up from the quaint wrought iron bench.

I smooth down my brand new jeans and walk the rest of the way to the Cantina Bar and Grill in my brand new cowboy boots.

The innkeeper recommended the place. Probably because it’s just a block away, and the only late dinner option in La Veta, Colorado.

My steps echo up and down the street.

I breathe deep, taking in the crisp pine-scented mountain air and gentle quiet.

It’s a new moon. The perfect timing for this adventure.

The Milky Way streaks over the inky silhouette of the mountains.

This is truly divine. Serene and calming. The open space. The solitude. And the quiet. The quiet is so therapeutic. My entire body relaxes in the peacefulness of it all.

I almost hate to go inside.

But I’m hungry. Really hungry. And I have been looking forward to this first meal of freedom for a long time.

The door to the Cantina squeaks as I open it. In unison, four men inside look to see who’s about to step in.

Okay. I swallow. Test number two.

The lady at the inn didn’t recognize me. Will these cowboys?

With light makeup, no jewelry, a simple ponytail and everyday casual clothes, I hope to blend in like a normal person here.

“Well, come on in missy and shut the damn door,” the middle-aged bartender grumbles. “I ain’t heatin’ all of Spanish Peaks.”

I step in and let the door close behind me.

The two older gentlemen swivel back to the bar with no additional interest. That’s good.

But the third one? The cowboy on the end? He stares, with an open mouth, straight ahead at my reflection in the bar back mirror.

After a moment, he swivels around to face me.

His stare isn’t one of recognition, though. It’s a stare of heat and attraction. His gaze travels down my body. Something warm and tempting flutters in my stomach when his eyes, the color of an exotic precious metal, settle on mine.

Hello, Mr. Sin.

Day-old scruff on his face, mussed up hair from a well-worn hat propped on his knee. I know several male models who would give up a testicle, maybe even both, to look half as authentic as this guy.

There’s an empty stool next to the cowboy, but I opt for a booth instead. I feel his eyes on my backside. At the first booth, I put my phone on the table, take off my jacket, and slide onto the bench — grateful for the bit of privacy the high back gives me to catch my breath.

I blow out the stale air in my lungs and inhale a fresh batch.

So far, so good.

The booth faces a well-used pool table and an old-fashioned jukebox. The walls have a vintage coat of yellowed nicotine probably from back when public smoking was still a thing. Of the old neon marketing signs only the right side of a Coors one flickers. The table under my elbows has a gazillion burn marks and just as many water rings. The wood plank floor could use a refinish right along with the table.

This place is definitely more bar and less grill. It’s rustic. Yes, rustic is a good description. Not exactly what I’m used to, but that’s the point.

I clasp my hands and wait for service.

“Ah, missy?” The bartender hollers.

I lean my head out of the booth to look back toward bar.

Four sets of male eyes stare back at me.

“The waitress went home after supper hours.” The bartender dries a beer mug and places it on a shelf.

“Oh.” I slide out of the booth and go to the bar to order. Mr. Sin follows my every step.

The closer I get, the stiller he becomes. Except his aura. That vibrates almost like a wolf’s would. He’s got an interesting one, but it’s not Lycan.

It’s power. Testosterone. A lot of heat, and he oozes a rich masculine scent that is impossible to ignore.

Without a word, he ropes me in, pulls my gaze to his. Those golden-bronze eyes blink slowly, breathes slowly. He’s not even touching me, but he’s touching me.

That warm flutter in my stomach slides lower to tingle a more sensitive body part.

The only open space in the bar is right next to him. I step into it.

“What can I getcha?” The bartender rests his towel on his shoulder.

“Um.” I drag my attention back to him. “A glass of pinot noir, please.”

“Comin’ right up.” He pulls down a wine glass.

I smile in delicious anticipation of just saying my next words. “And, I’d like a cheeseburger, too, please.”

“You can like all you want.” The bartender uncorks a rather dusty looking bottle of wine. “The waitress and cook are the same person.”

Damn it.

“Now, Roy, how can anyone say no to this lovely lady?” My cowboy has a deep baritone voice. The bass of it settles around me like a wanton caress.

“If I’ve ever seen a girl who needs a burger, it’s this one.” He looks me over. “Maybe a half-dozen of ‘em.”

I tilt my head. The playful twinkle in his eyes takes the edge off what otherwise would be an insult.

Or maybe it’s the heat in those eyes.

Or the erotic lick of his lips followed by a nervous swallow.

I smile and play along. “With a big old side order of fries.”

“With chili and cheese?” The handsome man asks with his teasing, timbered tone.

“Oooooh.” I moan for real. My mouth waters for real. “The last time I had chili cheese fries was the summer before sixth grade.”

Mr. Sin slaps a hand to his chest in exaggerated horror. “That’s criminal.”

And I laugh. Right out loud. A big laugh — that stretches facial muscles and creases my eyes. I probably haven’t laughed like this since the sixth grade either.

Roy, the bartender, places the glass of wine on the counter.

“I’m sorry, missy. The kitchen is closed.” Roy reaches beneath the bar. He sets a small bowl of peanuts in front of me. “On the house.” He looks sheepishly apologetic. “These, too.” He adds a larger bowl of stale looking pretzels.

“Well, that’s protein and carbs covered.” I pull my lips into a disappointed sideways smirk.

“Oh. I got your fiber right here.” Roy produces a glass of celery from a mini fridge.

I recoil from it. I swear if I never have another bite of celery it’ll be too soon.

My tummy growls loudly as punctuation.

“I heard that.” One of the older guys shakes his head. “We best feed that girl some real food.”

“C’mon, Roy.” The cowboy turns, serious now, to the bartender. “How hard is it to throw a frozen patty on the grill?”

“The flattop’s gotta heat for thirty minutes first!” Roy whips his bar towel off his shoulder to finish drying his mugs. “Even so, Judy’d hand me my ass if she comes into a dirty kitchen ‘morrow mornin’.”

Mr. Sinful slides off the bar stool.

Oh my. He’s huge.

At five-eleven, I’m taller than a lot of men. And heels? Forget it. I look like an Amazonian. But this guy is a good seven or eight inches taller than me and has the proportional density to match. Broad shoulders, developed pecs and thick biceps fill out a soft-looking faded flannel shirt.

When he digs in his jeans pocket, his corded arms flex under the rolled up sleeves.

“Let’s go.” He palms a keychain and raises his chin to the door.

Is he expecting me to go with him?

“Me?” I point at myself.

“Yes, ma’am. I’m taking you to dinner.”

There’s a rumble from the other men. Roy’s hands stop on the glass he’s drying to stare. At the same time, the two older gentlemen swivel their stools to watch us.

“There’s a place over in Walsenburg—” The cowboy reaches for the door handle.

The Wrangler pocket stitching has never been as finely displayed as it is on this cowboy’s rear end.

“Freddy’s?” Roy asks Mr. Sin in Jeans.

Mr. Sin nods.

“They closed—” He looks at a clock. “Two hours ago.”

Though I never intended to leave with this cowboy, my shoulders fall even more.

“I appreciate your generous offer,” I tell Mr. Ass-I’d-Like-to-Fondle. “I’m definitely hungry as a bear. And you’re—” I was going to say hot, but I’m sure he knows that. “You seem nice, and all, but I don’t even know your name.”

“Smart girl.” The older guy nods his approval.

A slow, sexy as sin smile spreads across my cowboy’s face. He comes closer and holds out a hand.

“Sin,” he echoes my thoughts.

“What?”

“My name. It’s Sin Wild,” he says with a straight face. “Wild with an e at the end.”

Sin Wilde?

Is he for real?

I narrow my eyes at him. “That is not your name.”

His smile widens revealing a sexy as sin dimple.

I lean my head out to look at the older man, again. He nods his verification. “Sinclair is his given name. Sin for short.” He points at the old man next to him. “This is my older brother Arthur Blackear.” His thumb points at himself. “And I’m Marvin Blackear.”

“Nice to meet you both,” I say.

“The pleasure is all ours.” Sin reaches down for my hand. “And you are?” He looks up, those gilded eyes twinkle through a thick fringe of lashes. Not one, but two dimples hide under the short stubble on his face. The mop of unruly hair matches his lashes.

He’s panty dropping.

The energy between us thickens.

So does my throat. I clear it to speak. “Fallon.” I give him my real name, deciding on the spot to retire my professional name.

Henceforth I shall just be me.

Sin the cowboy could be a splendid way to kick off my adventure.

My stomach grumbles again.

“When’s the last time you’ve eaten, Fallon?” The rumble of his voice strums my fantasies.

It’s been a while since I’ve eaten, but much, much longer since I’ve felt that particular throb of desire.

He smirks as if he knows what I’m feeling. I focus on his question.

The last time I ate was on the plane into Newark. I squint, thinking. Let’s see, with the time change — I count on my fingers.

“That long?” He chuckles.

I frown. “I ate a salad for lunch somewhere over the Atlantic.” I shrug. “And an egg white omelet in Paris this morning.” I tilt my head. “Make that yesterday. Europe is eight hours ahead of mountain time.”

The four men look at me like I’m crazy.

My voice fades. I stop rambling and roll my lips in.

Sin slips his phone out of his front pocket. I’m distracted for more than a few seconds by the bulge in his jeans. When I look back up, Sin winks.

Busted.

My cheeks heat.

Sin counters with a ogle of me. I swear I can almost hear him growling.

Never taking his eyes off me, he taps on the phone screen.

It dials on speaker.

“Yeah,” a male voice answers.

“Is Will around?” Sinclair’s gaze travels my face, then my body and back to my face. The eyes that return to mine have darkened to sultry chestnut.

“Hey, Sin.” Will is a woman with a cheerful voice.

“I need to call in that favor you owe me. Can you cook up a couple of burgers—”

I’m horrified. “Oh, no. Don’t.” I take a tentative step toward him. “Really. I’m not going to starve by tomorrow morning.” I’ve gone longer without food.

“Who’s that?” Will asks.

“That’s Fallon.” My name rolls nicely off of Sin’s tongue. “She’s going to have dinner with me, if my sister will rustle up some burgers.”

Will laughs. “Well, seein’s as how you need all the help you can get in the romance department—”

I doubt he needs any help.

More heat floods my face.

Sin just keeps smiling.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

“No, Will.” I speak right into the phone. “Really. I couldn’t ask you —”

“Don’t listen to her.” Sin taps off speaker and pulls the phone to his full lips. “What’s the chance I could get an order of chili cheese fries to go with ‘em?”

Oh. I bite my lip and eagerly await her answer — vowing to repay her if she says yes.