First impressions can be everything and I hate that I blew mine with the hunk who came to meet me at the dirt strip. If it had been a movie, that moment I got out of the car and our eyes met should’ve had the Blues Brothers track, Rawhide, playing in the background. I can almost hear it playing in my head.

Rolling, rolling.

I’ve never seen anything as mind-numbingly and fabulously macho in Chicago. A real, honest-to-goodness cowboy. His skin is deeply tanned, his hair sun-streaked and curling around his shirt collar, and his features cut as if from pure granite.

He is casually leaning against a beat-up truck with the thumb of his right hand hooked into one of the belt loops of his faded jeans. It makes the big muscles of that arm strain against the sleeve of his plaid shirt. And the low riding jeans that hug his lean hips and fall onto cowboy boots...someone, anyone, just kill me now.

As I watch, one tip of his hard mouth curls into a sarcastic, lazy grin, and my mouth goes bone dry. It should be a crime to smile like that. He tips his solid black Stetson back. Nice. When he pulls away from the dusty pickup and starts walking toward me, my heart hammers like crazy. No, it doesn’t happen in slow motion, but it sure feels like it does.

Act one, Scene one.

Spoilt bitch meets to-die-for cowboy.

Tearing my eyes away from his approaching form, I pretend to nonchalantly dust my clothes with my sweaty palms and take the first step. I can feel my hands fidgeting and twitching as he walks toward me. I get OCD when I’m nervous and I’m shaking with nerves.

Even under the shade of his hat, his icy gray eyes, framed by paintbrush eyelashes, are piercing. When they drop to my chest and stay, I feel as if I’m gonna melt into a puddle. I know then I need to cool down and hit the right note of blasé or I’m gonna to ruin everything for myself.

There’s only one way I know to do that. I channel Tamara Honeywell. And to be honest, I’m a much better actress than I thought. I take a gamble and offer myself to him in the most unsubtle way possible. That’s usually good to scare all but the most desperate man. And this one is definitely not desperate. Jessie always says men like a chase. Put it on a platter and shove it under their noses and they’ll run a mile. He falls for it like a rat falls for cheese. He doesn’t run a mile, but his lips thin and he takes a long step back.

I can tell by the expression in his eyes that he has declared war, which is fine by me. I’m not here to get laid or have my heart twisted and torn. I’m here for a month because I have bills to pay, and then I’m gone. Forever. With chivalry dead and buried in the dirt, I start dragging my suitcase toward the truck. I’m used to hard work, but I’m wearing high heels. It’s boiling hot and I nearly break my ankles. All the while I can see him watching me in the rearview mirror.

Asshat!

Once I’ve thrown everything into the bed of his truck, I join him in the front. I don’t care about sweat or dirt, but Tamara would, so I make a big deal about it. When I sit on the dust covered seat and my skirt rides up my thighs, so high it’s nearly obscene, he gives me an odd look before quickly looking away. The backs of my legs stick to the leather and I want to wiggle under his glare, but I know not to do so. Tamara would be confident about getting attention.

“Are we leaving, or are we just going to sit here, cowboy?” I ask, putting extra sass into my tone.

“I’ll pull away whenever I damn well please,” he responds, but he starts the engine with a scowl. Even when he is angry he looks as delectable as three scoops of ice cream and a big ole cherry on top.

“Are you smiling or just breaking wind?” I ask cheekily.

“Yeah, very classy,” he says sarcastically.

Hmmm…what would Tamara do? Be obnoxious. I stick my lower lip out in a belligerent pout the way I saw her do to Ms. Moore and snarl, “Don’t talk to me like that.”

He fixes the brim of his hat. “Maybe if you’d stop acting like a spoiled child I’d stop talking to you like that,” he retorts, his big brown hands clenching the steering wheel.

I contort my face and pick up my discarded heel—which probably costs more than my old apartment—and hit him on the shoulder with it. I’d love to say that I’m acting, but his manners are starting to piss me off.

“Quit acting like a selfish bitch.” He snatches the shoe from my hand, cranks his window glass down, and without any hesitation, hurls it out. “Oh, whoops. There goes your precious designer shoe,” he says, smiling smugly.

I gasp. I don’t care about the shoe as much as the money it costs. I hope Tamara doesn’t expect to get it back. All the same, he is insufferable. “You act like I give a shit about a stupid pair of shoes. There’s plenty more where that came from,” I scoff as I crank my glass down and toss my other shoe out into the endless stretch of prairie extending out on either side of us.

He stares at me in shock for a moment before turning back to the road and roaring with laughter. It breaks the tension and I bite my lip to keep from laughing along with him. I have to stay in character.

When I look in his direction, I notice his straight black hair blowing around his face from the breeze of the open windows. He has two dimples, but the one on his right cheek is more noticeable than on the left. He is a truly gorgeous specimen. One I would love to have for myself. Christ, where did that come from? I hope I don’t have to spend too much time with him or there could be trouble.

“You’re not going to be my trainer, are you?”

“Unfortunately, yes. The man who should have been training you broke his leg,” he explains morosely.

“Are you good enough to teach someone?” I ask. I know the terms of the deal—I have to be able to ride well enough to fall off of a horse at the end of the month and not hurt myself too much. I might as well get the pieces into their rightful places on the chessboard.

“That’s up to you. Will you listen and do exactly as I say?”

Cass would listen to everything he says while being respectful toward him, but I’m not Cass. I’m Tamara Honeywell, Queen Bitch. “Probably not.”

“Well then, you’ll probably fall off the damned bronco,” he says with a frown.

He swerves suddenly for no reason at all and I grab the holy-shit bar over the window and glare at him. “Are you sure you’re qualified to drive?”

His laugh has an edge to it. “I was avoiding a gopher.”

“What is a gopher?”

“Technically, it’s a ground squirrel.”

I turn my head back quickly but all I see are clouds of dust.

The rest of the ride is silent. I don’t want to push the man’s buttons too hard, even though I know Tamara would. She went out of her way to push mine and if I had not needed this job so badly, we would have come to blows. We drive through a tall wooden arch with Bucking Bronco Ranch written on a hanging wooden board and pull up at a large white house with a deep wraparound porch. I automatically reach to open the car door, then halt in my tracks and sit inside the car instead. Tamara would wait to have the door opened for her.

Lars opens his door, steps out, and slams his door shut. “What are you doing in there?” he asks, staring at me through the open window.

“I’m waiting to have my door opened,” I say, sitting a little straighter.

He shakes his head in wonder. “You’ll be waiting a long while if that’s the case.”

I sit back in my seat stubbornly. I hope he doesn’t concede to opening my door. I hope that he teaches me to be independent soon so I can drop this snobby act. “And I don’t have shoes,” I add. “I need to be carried in.”

His eyebrows disappear into his hat and the expression of astonishment on his face almost makes me burst into laughter. As I watch, the shock of my request is wiped away and replaced with a scowl. “Here’s another option. How would you like me to throw you into the house?”

I lift my chin arrogantly. “Well, at least get me some shoes then.”

“We’re on a ranch. It won’t kill you to walk barefoot on a bit of dirt.”

I love being barefoot—feeling the soil between my toes and the rocks beneath my feet—but I pretend to make a revolted face. “That’s disgusting. I am not getting my feet dirty.”

“Okay, I’ve had enough already. Let me make this crystal clear. If you don’t stop acting like a spoiled brat, I will make one call—one—and this will be over. I don’t care if you get hauled off to prison. It’s the best place for you as far as I’m concerned. While you are here, I expect nothing less than blind obedience. Do I make myself clear?”

Good man. Tamara’s father had a brilliant idea to send her here. This man and this place are exactly what she needs. Shame he has such a cunning daughter that she schemed her way out of his plan. I make a face. “Fine, I’ll listen, but I’m not doing all the gross things you people do. I’m just going to learn to ride a horse and go back to my life in LA as soon as possible.”

“I don’t give a shit what you get up to when you get back to wherever you came from, but while you’re here, you’ll do whatever I tell you to do,” he says sternly.

“How about not,” I snicker.

He stares at me with another priceless expression of disbelief.

Ignoring him, I open the door. Jumping to the ground, I wiggle my toes in the lovely hot soil. I almost moan with pleasure. I absolutely adore the feel of it. Up above, an eagle is circling in the hot blue air. In the distance, I can see animals that look like deer grazing.

“Are those deer?” I ask, squinting at them.

“No, antelope. We have about a hundred of them.”

I turn toward him. “Really?”

He nods. “The spread is heavily populated with wild pigs too.”

I have always loved animals and wanted to have a lot of them around me, but living in Chicago obviously deterred me from owning any. At that moment, I want nothing more than to go see all the farm animals, but Tamara Honeywell only loves animals when they come in the form of a handbag, a coat, or on her plate. “We passed a ton of little cottages on our way here. Are they all separate farms?”

“Most of what we passed belongs to this ranch. There are dozens of small homes lining the spread since many of the employees live and work on the land. It’s much easier than driving through the old country roads daily.”

“What kind of ranch is this?”

“We’re producers of grass-fed, grass-finished, pasture-raised beef, and we’re one of the finest stock farms in the state. Our prize cattle are sold for premium prices, but we also have dairy, sheep, hog, poultry, orchards, and we’re starting an Arabian horse operation soon.” His voice is filled with quiet pride.