Page 59 of Saltwater Cowboy

He smirked but didn’t look over. “Something like that.”

Suspicious. But I let it go, watching as the darkened countryside blurred past the window.

The drive was quiet for a while, only the low hum of the radio and the occasional thump of Granger shifting in the backseat. The sun had barely started stretching across the sky, turning the horizon a soft peach. I stifled a yawn and folded my arms.

“This is cruel, you know,” I muttered. “Forcing someone to function at this ungodly hour.”

“Not everyone lives on city girl hours.” Wells shot back.

I turned my head toward him. “For your information, my hours were perfectly fine before I moved here.”

He didn’t flinch, just kept his eyes on the road. “Might do you some good. Early mornings build character.”

I scoffed. “So does sleeping in.”

Wells just chuckled, shaking his head like I was hopeless.

Ten minutes later, we pulled into a gravel lot beside a squat building with an old wooden sign that read Brett’s Boots & Western Goods. A few rusted-out trucks were parked along the side, and a large German Shepherd lay sprawled across the front porch, tail flicking lazily.

“Of course you know a guy who sells boots,” I mumbled, stepping out of the truck. The moment my flip-flops hit the gravel, I winced.

“Watch your step,” Wells said with an amused drawl.

I shot him a glare as we walked up to the shop. The old wooden door creaked open, and inside, the air smelled like leather and sawdust. Rows of boots lined the walls, along with belts, hats, and other cowboy essentials I had zero intention of ever wearing.

Behind the counter stood a tall, broad-shouldered guy in his early forties, arms crossed over his chest. He had the same rugged look as Wells—minus the smugness.

“Well, well,” the man drawled. “Wells Calloway in my store at seven in the morning. Must be important.” His gaze flicked to me, amusement tugging at his lips. “And I assume this is the city girl you texted me about?”

I turned sharply to Wells. “You texted about me?”

Wells just grinned. “Brett, meet Rose. Rose, meet Brett. He’s got the best boots in town.”

Brett gave me a nod. “Pleasure.”

“Likewise.” I huffed, crossing my arms. “Let’s just get this over with.”

Brett chuckled, stepping out from behind the counter. “Alright, sweetheart, let’s find you some boots before you break an ankle.”

I muttered something under my breath about how dramatic cowboys were, but I followed him toward the endless rows of boots.

This was already shaping up to be way too much for this hour.

BOOTS

Watching Brett help Rose was exactly what I needed this morning—a solid dose of entertainment.

I hadn’t slept well last night, tossed and turned for hours. Maybe it was having someone else in my house, or maybe it was just knowing she was down the hall, shaking up my usual routine. Either way, I was running on caffeine and the sheer joy of watching Rose try to pick out a pair of cowboy boots.

“These are all hideous,” she announced, holding up a pair of red boots with intricate stitching like they personally offended her. “Are you absolutely sure I can’t just wear my sneakers?”

Brett snorted. “Not if you wanna survive out here.”

I bit back a laugh as she scowled at the rows of boots like they were some kind of personal betrayal.

“You’re gonna need something with grip, city girl. Trust me, you don’t want to be out on the farm in those fancy little shoes of yours.” Brett responded to her scowl.

Rose huffed, crossing her arms. “Fine. But I’m not wearing anything with fringe.”