CHAPTER 1
As far as Sutton Rose was concerned, babies came from love or bad math.
Or at least there was sex involved. Yet there she was, after a five-year sex deprivation, juggling a four-year-old, a diaper bag the size of Mary Poppins' purse, containing a legal document that screamed, "You're an adult now, Sutton, congrats! "
Sutton planted one sneaker on the lowest shelf, rose to her tiptoes, and stretched like her spine might snap in half. Whoever designed grocery shelving clearly hated short women and menstrual needs.
Just another humiliation.
The box she wanted—Ultra-Plus, fortress-grade—sat tauntingly on the top shelf, two inches out of reach.
"Afternoon." The male voice at her back made her freeze mid-stretch.
She didn't answer. Maybe he'd go away. The last thing she needed was a man wandering into her life, distracting her with broad shoulders and bad timing.
"Ma'am?" he tried again.
"Ma'am?" Sutton scoffed. He had to be shitting her. She wasn't even twenty-four. Way too young to be ma'amed. "Are you trying to start a fight in the tampon aisle?"
He chuckled. "Tell me your name and I'll call you that."
"Nice try."
"Need help?" he asked.
"Nope." She popped that P in a this-conversation-has-expired kind of way.
A quiet laugh. "Good Lord, you are the most suspicious person I've ever met."
"Says the guy lurking in the feminine-hygiene aisle," she said, her eyes locked on the boxes and boxes of tampons, hoping he'd get the message.
He did not.
"It's not lurking. It's called being a gentleman.
And while I'd never pressure a lady, I'd feel mighty guilty if anything happened to you while you're balanced on the very edge of a store fixture.
So I'll just stand here beside you, arms at the ready, watching you attempt the impossible until you admit you need help. Sound fair?"
"Top-shelf conspiracy against short people is real," she informed him.
He chuckled. "Good thing I'm tall and heroic."
She ignored the bait and stretched another inch, fingers grazing cardboard.
"You can stretch all you want," he drawled, amusement curling into warmth. "But the only thing you're accomplishing is showing me more of the teal lace you've got on."
Her breath stuttered. She slapped her hand over her butt and whipped around—too fast—her balance going out from under her. The shelf edge disappeared from beneath her shoes and she pitched forward.
Strong hands wrapped her waist before she could face-plant.
Heat shot through her veins—instant, electric, reckless—while fear froze her down to the bones. Because it wasn't just any man catching her.
Her palms hit his chest, solid muscle beneath a green, well-worn Henley. Her nose nearly brushed his. Their breath mingled, warm and uneven. His arms locked around her like holding her upright was instinct, not choice.
Every nerve she owned lit up.
"If you wanted attention, you could've just asked," he murmured, voice low enough to skim her skin.
"Thanks," she mumbled. "I guess I did need—"
Sutton looked up into the most mesmerizing set of hunter-green, flirt-tainted eyes—and the words died on her lips and dropped straight to the pit of her stomach, where they expanded and churned until she swore her organs were trying to crawl up her throat.
Oh God, she couldn't breathe. It wasn't just any man.
Her accidental hero was the man she'd been hunting for—but absolutely wasn't ready to meet. Preferably not while holding a box of tampons.
Because there, dressed in that fitted Henley rolled at the sleeves—showing strong forearms—and dark jeans that hugged just enough to hint at the power underneath, was Dr. Colter Callahan of 23179 Callahan Ranch Drive, Bridlewood, Montana—the new owner of the Full Barn Animal Clinic and the man Sutton had spent the last three years hunting for.
Her pulse ricocheted through her veins. Every muscle locked. A hot flush crawled up her neck, her scalp tingling with shock. He was real. He was in front of her. Not a grainy photo her private investigator had given her. Not a social media thumbnail. A six-foot-something wall of heat and trouble.
Even in casual clothes, he looked like he could handle a ranch, a clinic, or a herd of horses—and up close, his height and build made him feel almost larger than life, the kind of man who could fill any space he stepped into and bend it to his shape.
Her lungs forgot their function. Her brain scattered. And her stupid heart pumped like it recognized him before her logic could intervene.
God help her, he was even better-looking than the stake-out photos. Bigger than the pictures she'd found while stalking him online. Broader. Taller. More everything.
His mouth curved, slow and wicked. "Careful," he said, stretching out the words like they weren't in a rush, and elongating that a like a true Midwesterner. "If you stare any harder, you're gonna set me on fire."
Heat shot up her neck. She scrambled for composure. "I wasn't—"
"Speechless," he said, handing her the tampon box like he was gifting her the moon. His fingers brushed hers, warm and sure. "Happens a lot. Women meeting me for the first time. It's a whole epidemic."
Her jaw snapped shut, hard enough to sting. She'd heard the rumors about him being a playboy, but she hadn't been prepared to have that charm aimed squarely at her. Somehow it pissed her off—and disappointed her in a way she hated acknowledging.
"You think highly of yourself," she said.
"Only because you're looking at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like you're trying to remember how breathing works."
Her spine stiffened. She snatched the box from his hand like she needed distance before she melted right there on aisle twelve.
"You were reaching over me," she explained. "It startled me. That's all."
He leaned one hand against the cart, relaxed confidence rolling off him in waves, eyes glinting with amused disbelief. "And here I was hoping it was my rugged charm."
"It was not."
"What's wrong with my charm?"
"Your charm is fine," she said, with a mental eye-roll.
"Fine?" His brow shot up, wounded theatrically. His voice dipped into mock offense. "Freckles, that might be the harshest thing anyone's ever said to me."
She fought the smile tugging at her mouth, refusing to give him the satisfaction. "I'm sure you'll survive."
"Oh, I will." His gaze flicked to her lips, hotter than it had any right to be. She felt that look like a fingertip brushing down her sternum. "Anything else I can help you with? Wine. Chocolate. My number."
Her stomach dropped. Adrenaline surged. This could not be happening. "Thanks for the help, but that's a hard pass."
"On the wine or my number?"
"Both. I don't drink. It causes me to make stupid decisions—like fall for a playboy's charm."
"Now, you're falling for me?"
Her pulse skidded. Her mouth moved before her brain caught up. "Your charm."
"So you admit I'm charming?"
"Not the first line that comes to mind."
He leaned a fraction closer, voice dropping to a low gravel that stroked over her skin. The air tightened, her breath catching.
"I have this talent for leaving a lasting impression."
"I'm sure you do," she said, masking her quickened heartbeat with a laugh. She forced her shoulders loose, pretending her pulse was not sprinting toward her throat.
"Do you doubt me?" he teased. "I promise, I'm very persuasive when I want to be."
Her stomach tightened. Persuasive was exactly what had terrified her in theory, and even more in person. She stepped back, an instinctive half-retreat that gave her lungs space.
"I've met persuasive men before," she said, keeping her tone light. "Most don't last long."
He smirked, letting the air hum between them. The confident sound—that of a man who could dominate even in silence—crawled right under her skin like warm static. "Challenge accepted."
Her mouth went dry. She crossed her arms because she needed a barrier, however flimsy. "I don't play games."
"Oh, I wouldn't call this a game," he said, eyes darkening with mischief. His gaze was so direct it felt like a hand at her waist. "I'd call it strategic charm."
She forced neutrality across her expression because she refused to let her face give him ammunition. "Strategic, huh? That sounds exhausting."
"Not for me," he said, leaning just close enough for her to feel the pull of his body in the air. Her breath faltered. "But maybe for you. If you're not careful, you might find it irresistible." He glanced into her cart, and his expression twisted into wicked appreciation. "Nice melons."
Her brain stalled before jerking to a halt. "Pardon?"
He nodded at the cantaloupes like he was offering medical documentation. "Just appreciating your cantaloupe."
She tossed the box into her cart. "You're unbelievable."
"Am I? Or just honest?"
She fought the visceral punch of embarrassment and refused to flinch. "You're an asshole, that's what you are."
"That's a bad word," a little girl said, then stuck out her hand with righteous confidence.
Lynlee Rose was four and barely reached Sutton's hip, but carried herself like a tiny judge, jury, and enforcement squad.
Sunlit strawberry-blonde curls caught the light and refused to behave, pulled into two pigtails that bounced around her heart-shaped face.
Her eyes—wide, sea-glass, and unblinking—held the solemn authority of someone who took rules personally.
She also had the same stubborn chin as Sutton.
Dressed in her favorite outfit—a glitter-slicked tutu, a purple T-shirt with a cartoon horse doing jazz hands, and plastic heels that clicked like power shoes with every step—Sutton's daughter was her whole world. And more.
Lynlee presented her palm in demand of payment the way some kids demanded snacks—firm, unapologetic, and absolutely certain the world would comply.
Sutton dug through her purse, cheeks still burning, and handed over a dollar. Lynlee dropped it into the little glittery coin pouch she carried like a tax collector.
Colter held out his hand.
Sutton stared, incredulous. "What?"