Page 24 of One Wild Chance

Me: No, I don’t.

Larissa: But rivals-to-lovers is the BEST trope!

Me: The man was nearly kicked by a horse and STILL couldn’t ask for my help.

Larissa: Did you ever kiss him?

Me: Why would I do that?

Larissa: Hate kisses are a thing!

Me: I will definitely not be hate-kissing Jaxon Chance. Hate-slapping him? Maybe.

The thought of hate-kissing him makes my heart do something weird. But I push the thought away immediately. Not Jaxon Chance. Ever.

Larissa: Does he look good?

Me: I don’t know. I wasn’t staring.

Larissa: Sure you weren’t. Send pictures of some cowboys doing farm things.

Me: He is not a cowboy. This is a horse farm.

Larissa: Semantics. Enjoy that delicious snack of a man on a horse.

I tuck my phone away. My resolve needs to be hard as steel around that man if I’m going to survive working with him. And the only snack I’ll be enjoying tomorrow morning is the fresh cinnamon rolls Ada Mae makes.

Definitely not cowboys.

The next morning, Jaxon shows up right on time, dark shadows under his eyes, holding a tin mug of coffee. He’s in jeans and a white T-shirt, which tells me he must not remember what it’s like to work on a farm. By noon, that white tee will be a shade of dirt and sweat that no amount of Spray-n-Wash will fix.

He strides into the mare barn, then slowly circles the place while I use those ten seconds to note the way he fills out a pair of jeans. The man has no business looking like that at five in the morning before I can even string together two words. Not that I’m noticing.

I don’t even realize my gaze is still glued to him until he circles around. “Mornin’,” he says, mouth tipping up, amused that he caught me gawking.

My face heats, and I grab the nearest stall fork. “Morning,” I mutter, keeping my eyes down as I start raking through a perfectly clean bed of shavings. It’s all Larissa’s fault—she’s always had a cowboy obsession. I clear my throat. “How’s the coffee?”

“Haven’t tried it yet.” He takes a sip, then chokes and spits it back into the cup. “What does she put in this stuff?”

“Motor oil, probably.”

“Tastes like dirt,” he grinds out before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Same coffee she’s been serving since 1970.”

One side of his mouth tips up.

“Don’t tell anyone,” I say. “But I keep some flavored syrup in the farm office. Only way I can tolerate it.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think that’s enough to save it.”

“Probably not,” I agree. “But it’s all we’ve got.”

He dumps the rest of his coffee out the barn door, then brushes his hand on his jeans. “Where do we start?”

I pick up my clipboard from the hook and hold it out to him.

“What’s this?” He glances over the sheet.