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“I hate it here!” she shrieked, feeling like a fool but not caring. She hadn’t been at the ranch for five minutes and already her world was crumbling. “Spiders, cobwebs, rocks, dirt, grime, and who knows what else! Lions and tigers and bears…”
Her angry tears soon stopped, but Brielle was still in a foul mood as she sat there trying to breathe normally. After a few moments, she pulled herself together. Wasn’t she better than this? When she heard the crunch of footsteps behind her, she grimaced, not wanting to deal with anyone or anything else right then.
Whipping her head around, she got ready to tell whoever it was to go away when her tongue got stuck on the roof of her mouth. When the person who’d invaded her privacy spoke, she felt even more disoriented.
“May I help you?”
Brielle couldn’t seem to find her voice. Since she was still sitting on the ground, the man standing before her was so tall, he seemed to block out the sun. His boots looked old, his jeans dusty — like that truck — and the shirt plastered to his chest had seen better days. Brielle tilted her neck all the way back to examine his face, which was shadowed by the brim of his faded cowboy hat.
“Are you real?” she asked.
When his lips tilted up in a sardonic smile, she thought for a moment that she might be fantasizing. No, not likely. Where she was from, girls never fantasized about cowboys — she preferred a man in a suit. Still, she had to admit, if only to herself, that the guy towering over her was one hell of a hot piece of man candy.
And then he spoke again. “You must be Brielle Storm. I’m Colt Westbrook.”
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