"And if you'll walk this way," Marianne said, "you'll find the Honky Tonk's garden plot located right out back. We grow many of our own ingredients on the property, including the rosemary that rocketed our winning brew to small-town stardom."

"Don't be modest on my account." The woman at her side, Cheryl Lynn, grinned. "You're looking at more than just small-town stardom after I publish my piece. Trust me."

She was a writer for Craft, one of Austin's hot new hipster brewing magazines. Trent's celebrity quarterback brother, Charlie, had been the one to put Cheryl in touch with Marianne. One sip of Wildhorse Rose and Charlie had been on the phone pressuring the Craft editors to get a writer out to Lockhart Bend, or so Trent claimed.

Marianne liked Cheryl. She was as delightfully weird as the city she hailed from: dark-framed glasses, bottle-blond hair buzzed up one side, red cowboy boots that looked hand-painted. The tattoo of a hops plant that Marianne noticed on the journalist's arm won her over completely. She knew the Honky Tonk's image was in good hands.

"I'll let you in on a secret: this is actually my second garden." Marianne chuckled sheepishly. "I had a bit of trouble with the local jackrabbits, but once I got the fencing up…"

They rounded the corner and found the garden plot, all right. What they also found was a jeans-clad male posterior, flexed and in full view. The conversation died on their lips instantly as both women paused to watch.

Marianne had been from Texas to Colorado and back again. She felt confident in thinking there was nothing quite like the sight of Sheriff Trent Wild doubled over in a patch of dirt. The man took to gardening with more positive vigor than she ever had. The way he squatted now, with one knee bent beneath him and the other planted as firmly as the seeds he was spreading, made the denim of his jeans hug his muscular ass in a way that was borderline indecent.

Marianne cleared her throat, partly to free her stalled train of thought and partly to let Trent know that they were behind him. He glanced up, letting the sun hit his face beneath his hat brim. He rose from the plot, hitching his belt a little as he did. His face and neck were flecked with dirt, and a dark patch of sweat stained the unbuttoned collar of his open shirt. Marianne thought being filthy had never looked so utterly appealing.

"And that's Sheriff Wild. Fences don't work on him," she informed Cheryl, who looked both flushed and suddenly winded by the sight of him. "He's something like my assistant brewer."

"Something like that." Trent stripped off his gardening gloves and came forward, offering his large palm in a handshake. Cheryl juggled her pen quickly and settled on stabbing it into her bun to free up her hand. "Trent Wild, ma'am. At your service."

"Cheryl Lynn. What service I can be remains to be seen," Cheryl replied. To Marianne, she said: "This is a great photo op. Do you mind if I get a few pictures of the two of you out here by the garden together?"

"Not at all!" Marianne moved to Trent's side, trying to flatten some of the frizz out of her hair. It was hopeless with the humidity; she should have known it was double-hopeless the moment she saw the wicked glint in Trent's eye. Before she knew what was happening to her, he seized her around the waist and dipped her over his knee…only he didn't stop at his knee. "Trent, don't you dare!" she exclaimed, but of course he didn't listen. Soon she was so low she could feel the dampness from the ground leeching into the backs of her knees and thighs.

He hauled her back up again before letting her drop completely on her ass. What a gentleman, Marianne thought furiously. Cheryl was laughing, which had probably only egged Trent on in his campaign to torment her.

Marianne patted the back of her jeans, and her hands came away soaked in black mud. Trent's own booming laugh drew her attention from her ruined appearance, and her horror turned vengeful. She slapped her palms against his chest in a shove, leaving black handprints in her wake.

Now she laughed, and Trent's eyebrows shot up. "So that's how you want to play it?" he asked.

"Hey, you started it!" Marianne accused. "Now I’ve ended it!"

"You ended shit. Come here."

She was back in his arms before she had a chance to escape. Trent leaned in for a kiss, and Marianne threw up her hands to ward off the exhibition—which only resulted in his jaw getting muddy and Trent transferring that mud to her when he kissed her anyway.

"Guess we'll have to hold off on the photoshoot," Marianne laughed apologetically as she pulled away. "Sorry, Cheryl. My assistant brewer has been out here a long time today. He's a little sun drunk."

Cheryl shook her head. "No way! This is some great stuff! Now I've got a whole reel of you guys looking fun and natural." She tapped one nail against the viewing screen of her camera. "Our readers want to see authentic people. Country people. Movers and shakers who aren't afraid to get a little dirty."

"Trust me, Marianne isn't afraid to get dirty," Trent volunteered. Marianne glared at him, but then he corralled her close under his arm, making it impossible for her to keep up the evil eye. Cheryl's cellphone trilled. The journalist fished it out of her back pocket and gave them an apologetic look.

"It's my editor," she explained. "Do you mind if I take this real quick?"

"Not at all." Marianne grinned. “Is your editor already trying to get you on a flight out of here?"

"I've already booked a room in town," Cheryl said. "I'm not going anywhere." She took the call and disappeared around the front of the bar.

"She seems nice," Trent commented.

Marianne elbowed him in the ribs. "You seem like you need a break from the sun. It's making you goofy."

"Well, you seem like you're damn beautiful. Maybe that's why I'm acting this way." Trent caught her chin in his hand, and Marianne's breath hitched with anticipation—but he was only looking the banish some of the mud from her cheek. His thumb swept her jawline, and she had to bite back what felt like a purr bubbling up in her throat. "Look how far you've come. Used to be you couldn't stand the sight of dirt, much less having it on you." He grinned, and his teeth were the most sparkling clean thing about him at present. Marianne couldn't help but mirror him with a smile of her own. "This article is just the start. There will be plenty more publicity where that came from once the world gets a taste of you."

"Then why don't you shut up and get to tasting me?" she murmured. Trent's thumb stroked down her cheek, but too softly to brush off any remaining dirt. She leaned into his touch as Trent leaned into her.

She'd been searching all her adult life for that perfect ambrosia, the divine collision of texture and taste that made the lips sing with pleasure. Any good brewer knew that the best combinations often came unexpectedly, maybe even by complete accident—and as Trent's lips merged with her own, Marianne finally discovered the crowning ingredient to pure, undiluted happiness.