Page 8 of Big, Burly Bodyguard

A worn cowboy hat sits on the dashboard.

I bite my lip, smiling. I never imagined I’d get to marry a cowboy.

As we pull out of the airport, I casually pull my phone from my purse and fire off a text.

Me: I’ve landed in Houston.

Me: You did NOT warn me he was this hot. I may combust before Vegas.

I glance sideways at him.

He’s focused on the road, jaw set, hands steady on the wheel.

Even his hands are sexy. Veins and scars and a dusting of hair. Yep, definitely attractive hands.

What is happening to me?

“So,” I say. “I guess we should talk.”

His brow creases. “About what?”

“Our marriage,” I say, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He chokes.

Not dramatically—but enough that he has to clear his throat.

“Marriage,” he repeats carefully.

“Yes,” I say, suddenly flustered. “I mean, not right this second. But at some point. We haven’t discussed expectations or boundaries or—well—anything.”

Silence stretches.

I barrel on, nerves taking over.

“I just want you to know I’m very flexible. I understand this is unconventional, but I’m completely on board with whatever arrangement you’re comfortable with. Traditional. Non-traditional. Friendly. Passionate.” I shrug. “Marital pleasures included.”

He spits out the swig of water he just took. Then he does choke.

Awesome. Now I’m going to kill him before we even get married.

The truck swerves slightly before he rights it and pulls over onto the shoulder, coughing.

“Jesus,” he mutters.

“Oh God,” I say, mortified. “I didn’t mean to— I mean, not like that, I just⁠—”

He turns to me, eyes wide.

“Evelyn,” he says slowly, his voice hoarse from the coughing fit. “There’s been a misunderstanding.”

My stomach drops.

“I’m not Mike.”

I blink.

He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m Mitchell. Mike’s brother.”