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What pretty lady? Is the hot cowboy talking about me?
“I’m not Dutton!” The boy stomps one foot, his small boot kicking up dust. “I’m Woody!”
“Right. Woody. Sorry, partner. I forgot.”
“You’re my favorite deputy!” the boy crows.
“Ah.” A smile tugs at my lips. “So you two like Toy Story, huh?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the man says. “Well, he sure does.” He straightens and removes his hat, and I finally get a glimpse of his face.
My heart stutters to a halt.
I’m transported back to last summer, in my pre-Oliver era, when I was at a surprise party with a gorgeous specimen of a man who sported the same chocolate brown eyes, the same dark beard, the same unruly hair.
Noah Stadler.
He’s Dex’s friend. We were with a group in the back room of a restaurant for hours. Plenty of time to connect. I found out that he’s a physical therapist. That he works at Havenwood, a local memory care facility. No ring on his finger, so I tried flirting with him, but he barely gave me the time of day. Or night, for that matter.
At the time, I wasn’t even shocked. Being ignored was par for the course in my love life, and also the last straw. In fact, Noah Stadler is the reason I finally caved to pressure and made a profile on Swipe Rite.
Enter my Oliver era. Then my post-Oliver era.
“Hey, there.” Noah smiles at me now, and my stomach swirls like I’m on a pommel horse. “Little Michaels, right?” he asks.
Oh, man.
Where’s that stupid time machine when I need it?
Chapter Two
Noah
Chasing a four-year-old cowboy around a petting zoo was not on my mid-thirties Bingo card. I guess it could’ve been in today’s horoscope, if I read that kind of stuff. But I don’t play Bingo or believe in astrology. So yeah. Here we are.
And here’s a thing I didn’t know about Dexter’s sister until my nephew crashed into her:
Little Michaels is pretty.
Like really pretty.
She also handled getting bulldozed by Dutton like a champ, and when she smiled at him afterward, I clocked a couple dimples. Strong and sweet?
Nice combo.
“I didn’t know you had a son,” she blurts, and her cheeks pink up. The dimples are gone, and I want them back.
“I don’t.” I hitch my shoulders. “This particular human tornado is my nephew. Dutton.”
“I’m Woody!” he howls. “Stop forgetting!”
Shoving my hat back on my head, I squat down to talk to him at eye level. “Sorry, partner. These boots are so tight, I think they’re cutting off blood flow to my brain. Maybe …”
Dutton’s eyes go wide. “Maybe what?”
“There’s a snake in my boot,” I drawl. Then I glance up at Dexter’s little sister. “Sorry. That’s my best attempt at a Toy Story imitation, and for the record, I’m aware it’s not great.”
Dutton busts into giggles anyway.
