Chapter 3
Stalking Your Crush: A Beginners Guide
I drop the last of five bags of mealworms into my cart before pushing it to the end of the aisle, craning my neck to the front of Cattleman’s Feed & Supply, where Birdie stands behind the register.
She’s wearing pink overalls with a white T-shirt underneath and the store’s standard-issue navy-blue apron tied around her waist. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail, a strawberry-print bandana wrapped around her head.
She gives the customer she’s helping one of her trademark smiles as she scans and bags their items with practiced efficiency.
It’s only been twenty-four hours since I saw her at the sheriff’s office, but I couldn’t wait any longer to see her again—no matter how much grief Heath will give me later for buying more feed when we’re already well-stocked.
I scratch the stubble on my jaw as I watch her from a distance. God, she’s so damn pretty it knocks the wind out of me.
A tight coil of impatience twists in my chest when I see three more people are still in line waiting to check out.
Dammit. This is taking too long.
I glance around, making sure no one has noticed me staring at Birdie before sidestepping to the nearest endcap loaded with livestock manuals. I grab one at random, skimming the pages as I flip through it, my eyes darting up every few seconds.
Normally, I avoid coming here during the midday rush, but I promised Heath I’d meet him in an hour to work through the second round of cattle for their vaccines.
The ranch hands do most of the work, but he likes to have an extra set of eyes on them to make sure everything goes smoothly and that the animals are treated right.
Even as a large cattle ranch, we do our best to handle them humanely.
Birdie’s not exactly a fan of my family’s ranch since we raise cattle for beef.
When she was visiting a while back, one of the cows died during labor.
She begged Heath not to raise the calf for meat, saying it was too tragic.
When she started crying, he caved and agreed to keep it in the barn for a while.
Fast-forward almost two years, and he has a full-grown cow named Petunia.
Ever since, he’s been more mindful about how we treat the animals, putting their welfare above convenience or profit.
“Having trouble with the ladies?” I snap my head up to find Ed, the feed store manager, standing beside me. He must have come from the back while I was busy watching Birdie.
“What? No.” My gaze darts between him and the register. “Why would you think that?”
He tilts his head, nodding to the book in my hand. “Unless you’re doing some light reading, it appears you’re struggling to integrate a rooster into your flock.”
I frown, flipping to the front cover: Poultry Mating 101: So, Your Chickens are Getting Busy.
“Uh, no.” I scramble for an explanation. “Just being proactive. Figured it’s best to brush up on rooster etiquette before introducing a new one to the flock.”
“If you need advice, I have got plenty of tips to keep those hens of yours from staging a mutiny,” Ed offers.
I nod absentmindedly, only half listening as my attention is still firmly on Birdie and not on how to negotiate peace among a flock of hormone-crazed hens.
When I don’t answer, Ed eyes my overflowing cart with a furrowed brow. “Your brother told you we agreed to free delivery for the ranch, right?”
“He did,” I answer curtly.
It took Heath a year to convince the store owner that the sheer quantity of orders we place merits it.
I should be happy about the chance to make fewer trips to the store—but I’m not.
Now I’m forced to find creative excuses every time I want to come in and steal a moment alone with Birdie without looking like a certified stalker.
Ed pulls out a pen and a pad of paper from his back pocket. “How about I take stock of everything you want and have it delivered with Heath’s usual order tomorrow?”
“No thanks,” I say, cutting him off. “It’s already in my cart, so I’ll grab it while I’m here.”
“You sure? It’s no trouble at all.”
It’d be great if he could try to be less helpful right about now.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Positive.”
I’m seconds away from losing my cool when I glance over at the register and find there’s only one guy left in line, and the store appears otherwise empty of customers.
Finally.
“I’ve gotta run, Ed.” I shove the manual into his hands. “Mind putting that back for me? Thanks.”
I turn and push my cart to the front, slipping in behind the last person waiting to check out. I don’t recognize him, which is unusual. He looks around my age, with shoulders like a quarterback and shaggy blonde hair that falls past his cowboy hat.
When Birdie calls him up to the register, a flush creeps into her cheeks. “I can check you out now, sir… I mean, I can ring you up,” she stammers.
He steps forward, setting a wrench and a flannel jacket on the counter.
“Thanks for your patience,” she says softly.
“No problem, sugar. I had a nice view while I waited,” he replies, shooting her a wink.
Birdie bites her lower lip, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. She’s so starry-eyed over the stranger that she doesn’t even notice me standing behind him.
“Mine isn’t so bad either,” she murmurs as she scans the guy’s items.
I’m surprised the cart handle hasn’t cracked from how tightly my knuckles are gripping it.
It’s impossible to stop the visceral reaction that hits me as I watch her swoon over an out-of-towner who looks nothing like a real cowboy—crisp jeans and boots so shiny they might as well be props for a photo shoot. What a tool.
Birdie doesn’t appear to share the same sentiment, sneaking glances at him while she rings up his things. When she presses the jacket’s security tag into the magnetic detacher, she struggles to get it loose, grunting softly as she pushes harder until it finally pops free.
The guy flashes her an easy grin. “You’ve got a real talent for that.”
I swallow hard, exhaling through my nose as I fight to keep my cool.
He’s clearly into Birdie, and I’d rather shove a hot poker into my brain than watch him ask her out.
If miracles exist, now would be a hell of a time for one to intervene.
I’d take a power outage, a spilled pallet of feed, or even a moose charging through the front window—I’m flexible as long as it puts a stop to this nauseating spectacle unfolding before my eyes.
“Thanks, I’m really good with my hands,” Birdie replies as she folds the flannel. “The secret is applying the right amount of pressure. I’ve had a lot of practice…” Color rises to her cheeks. “With removing security tags,” she quickly adds.
I might hate that she’s flirting with someone else, but her nervous little stumble and the way she tries to correct herself are ridiculously adorable.
The guy gives her a tentative smile. “Uh… right. Makes sense.”
Birdie gives a nervous, high-pitched laugh. “Anyway. Flannel, huh?”
I shift uncomfortably as silence stretches between them, the conversation suddenly teetering toward awkwardness.
He rubs the back of his neck. “Yeah.”
“Great choice. It’s all the rage right now.
Even Nugget, my house chicken, is a fan,” Birdie says as she puts the jacket and wrench into a paper bag.
“She claimed my favorite flannel shirt to nest in and totally lost it when I tried to move her after she pooped on it. It’s nothing soap and water can’t fix, though.
” Birdie’s face pales when the guy visibly recoils at her suggestion.
“Totally kidding. I’m never wearing that thing again. Rest in peace, flannel.”
The guy’s gaze drifts to the exit as he takes out his wallet. “How much do I owe you?”
It’s obvious he’s eager to cut their conversation short, and honestly? I don’t blame him. Even from here, their exchange has been excruciating to witness.
It’s no secret that Birdie gets nervous under pressure, and I can only imagine how unsettling it must be to go from a guy giving her googly eyes to one searching for an escape route in less than a minute.
I almost regret wishing for that miracle, but it’s his loss for not seeing what was right in front of him.
Birdie reads off the total, and he swipes his card.
While she waits for him to go through the prompts on the keypad, she nudges the bag of items toward him.
Her fingers fidget with the gold necklace at her throat, a nervous tell I’ve noticed.
As soon as the receipt prints, she rips it from the machine, but in her hurry, she knocks over a wire cup of pens, sending them clattering across the counter and the receipt floating to the ground.
“I’m so sorry,” she stammers, scrambling for the pens before they fall to the floor.
“No worries. I actually don’t need a receipt.” The guy takes his bag and heads straight for the exit.
“Oh… okay. Have a nice day,” she calls after him, her tone half-hearted.
Once the guy is out of sight, Birdie buries her face in her hands. “Why do you always have to make things so awkward?” she mutters under her breath.
Not about to stand by and let her blame herself, I roll my cart to the register, gathering up the remaining pens that rolled out of her reach. “Why the long face, sweetheart?”
She startles at my voice, slowly lowering her hands and fixing me with a withering stare. “What are you doing here, Walker? Did you come looking for more blackmail material?” She glances around before dropping her voice to a whisper. “Isn’t the mugshot enough?”
I frown at her response. Normally, she’d have a sarcastic retort, but her usual spark is nowhere to be found.
“I’m actually off-duty for blackmailing activities today,” I tease, leaning over the counter and dropping the pens back in the cup. “Just a friend checking in to see how his favorite troublemaker’s doing and stocking up on supplies.”
Because friends stalking friends at work is totally normal behavior.