I literally don't know where this idea came from. If you've been around, I did steal names from another HP fic, but this is an original work set in the real world. I do not know anything about these sports, I know the scenario is highly unrealistic, but I just started writing and had to get it out there. I hope you love it!

The room buzzed with the hum of mingled accents—Texan drawls and clipped British tones blending in the opulent London ballroom. Colt Campbell stood at the center of a knot of admirers, his dark aviators hooked on his pearl snap shirt, whiskey dangling carelessly from his massive hand. He was all charm, flashing a lazy grin that showcased the dimple in his cheek. At 6'5", broad-shouldered and golden-haired, he was a towering figure, his tattooed arms drawing as much attention as his reputation. America's bad boy. The Dallas Cowboys' star quarterback. And tonight, the center of everyone's attention.

Across the room, Adair Wood lingered by the champagne table, her flute held delicately between her fingers. She'd been cajoled into attending by one of her major sponsors, who thought it prudent for her to mingle with the American athletes in town. The whispers about her were growing louder—Adair Wood, England's golden girl, might claim a calendar Grand Slam. But tonight, she felt out of place. Prim and composed in her knee-length dress, her dark hair slicked back into a neat chignon, she surveyed the boisterous crowd with an air of quiet detachment.

She sipped her champagne and stole a glance toward the American football players. Loud, boisterous, larger-than-life. She didn't follow their sport, but even she couldn't miss the magnetism of Colt Campbell. His deep laugh rolled across the room, drawing her eyes as if he commanded them. A cowboy, through and through, she thought, catching sight of the boots peeking beneath his dark jeans. How…stereotypical.

And yet, she couldn't quite look away.

Colt, on the other hand, had caught sight of her a while ago. The tiny tennis star in the corner. She stood out, elegant and demure, a sharp contrast to the brash energy of the room. The kind of woman who wouldn't give a guy like him a second glance. That didn't stop him from thinking about crossing the room to introduce himself.

"Hey, Colt," one of his teammates called, slapping him on the shoulder. "You should introduce yourself to the tennis star over there. She's supposed to be the next big thing."

He lifted his glass, his blue eyes narrowing slightly as he sized her up. "Think she can handle a cowboy?" he muttered, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Adair, feeling the weight of his gaze, raised her glass in a silent toast. Challenge accepted.

Colt decided he'd wasted enough time watching. He drained the last of his bourbon, handed the glass to a passing server, and swaggered toward her with the easy confidence of a man who was used to getting what he wanted. His boots clicked against the polished floor, and as he approached, the sheer size of him became undeniable. Adair, perched elegantly by the edge of a table, barely reached his chest.

She glanced up, her dark eyes sharp and assessing, and immediately looked unimpressed. "What's this, then?" she said coolly, her accent cutting through the noise around them. "A cowboy in London? Should I curtsy, or do you prefer a bow?"

Colt's smirk widened, his blue eyes gleaming with amusement. "Neither," he drawled, his voice slow and honeyed. "Though if you wanted to tip your hat, I wouldn't stop you."

Her brow arched. "I don't wear cowboy hats. And if I did, I certainly wouldn't tip one for a man with that many tattoos." Her gaze flicked pointedly to his arms, the ink swirling beneath the short sleeves of his pearl snap shirt. "What are you compensating for, exactly?"

Instead of bristling, Colt laughed, a deep, genuine sound that drew a few stares. "Well now, darlin', you'd have to get to know me to find out." He tilted his head, his smile bordering on cocky. "You always this mean to strangers, or is it just me?"

Her lips twitched as if she were fighting a smile. "Just you. You make it so easy."

He leaned in, dropping his voice low enough that only she could hear. "You've got a sharp tongue, Miss Wood. I like that."

Adair took a deliberate sip of her champagne, leveling him with an unimpressed stare. "Good for you. I don't much care what you like."

Colt grinned, undeterred. He slid his hands into his pockets, his broad shoulders filling the space around her. "You will," he said simply. It wasn't a boast. It was a promise.

Colt leaned one elbow against the table, his broad frame seeming to take up all the space around her. "They're sayin' you're fixin' to win some big tennis thing."

Adair's dark eyes flicked up to his, her expression cool and unreadable. "A Grand Slam," she corrected, her words clipped and precise, her accent as polished as her demeanor. "And it's not a certainty, just speculation."

Colt's grin widened, the dimple in his cheek deepening. "Speculation, huh? Sounds like you're bein' modest. You don't strike me as the type to settle for anything less than winnin'."

"I suppose that depends on what there is to win," she said, raising an eyebrow. "Is that what you've come over here to do, Mr. Campbell? Win something?"

He chuckled, the sound warm and easy. "Well, ma'am, winnin' is kind of my thing. I reckon it's yours too, seein' as how you've got that look about you."

Her brow furrowed slightly. "What look?"

"The one that says you don't take no for an answer," Colt replied, his blue eyes glinting. "And you don't let nobody tell you what you can and can't do."

Adair tilted her head, considering him for a moment. He was rough around the edges—everything about him seemed big, bold, and untamed. His tattoos, his boots, even the way he leaned into her space as if the whole room were his playground. It was the antithesis of her world, where precision and discipline ruled. And yet, there was something disarming about his charm, something almost magnetic.

"You certainly do talk a great deal, Mr. Campbell," she said at last, her tone dry. "I imagine that comes in handy when you're trying to distract your opponents."

"Only when it works," Colt said, tipping his head to her. "But you ain't distracted, are you?"

She took a deliberate sip of her champagne again, her gaze steady. "Not in the slightest."

Colt grinned again, tipping the brim of an imaginary hat. "Guess I'll just have to try harder, Miss Wood."

Colt tilted his head, studying her with a lopsided grin. "So, tell me," he drawled, his Texan accent thick and honeyed, "you comin' to the game on Sunday? I figure a tennis star like you'd wanna see how the other half plays."

Adair lifted her flute of champagne, her expression as poised as ever. "Unfortunately, yes," she said, her words clipped and formal. "I've been… persuaded to attend."

Colt raised a brow, his grin widening. "Persuaded, huh? What, someone twist your arm?"

"Not quite," she replied, setting the glass down with deliberate precision. "I'm being paid handsomely to show up, smile, and act as if I have the faintest idea what's going on."

He chuckled, the sound low and lazy. "That right? They payin' you to smile at me, too?"

She gave him a look that could've frozen the bourbon in his glass. "I doubt you'll require payment for that, Mr. Campbell. You seem perfectly capable of collecting smiles on your own."

Colt laughed again, shaking his head. "You're somethin' else, darlin'. Don't reckon I've ever met someone who could cut me down so politely."

Adair's lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile—just enough to intrigue, but not enough to give anything away. "I find bluntness terribly uncivilized. Though, in your case, I imagine it's second nature."

"Fair enough," he said, lifting his glass in a toast. "Guess I'll just have to wait and see if that smile of yours shows up on Sunday."

Her gaze didn't waver as she picked up her champagne again. "Don't hold your breath."

Colt leaned back slightly, letting his eyes sweep over her with a lazy grin, the kind that could make anyone feel seen—maybe too seen. He swirled the bourbon in his glass and gave her a look that was equal parts mischievous and disarming.

"You know, Miss Wood," he drawled, his Texas twang stretching out each word like molasses, "you seem so classy, all polished and proper. But here's the thing—I've got that photo of you from the Sports Illustrated swimsuit edition taped in my locker. Wet hair, little white bikini." He let the words hang, his grin widening like he'd just dealt an ace card. "Damn near made my whole season."

Adair's fingers tightened subtly on the stem of her champagne flute, but her expression remained pristine—barely a flicker of reaction crossed her face. She took a measured sip of champagne before replying, her tone as crisp as winter air.

"Well, Mr. Campbell," she said, setting her glass down with the precision of a surgeon, "I suppose I should be flattered. Though I imagine it speaks more to your lack of imagination than anything else."

Colt barked out a laugh, a deep, throaty sound that turned heads in the crowded room. "Lack of imagination? That's cold, darlin'."

"Honesty is rarely warm," she replied, her lips curving into the barest hint of a smile. "But I'll be sure to pass your compliments on to the photographer. He deserves the credit, after all."

Colt shook his head, still grinning. "You've got a sharp tongue on you, Miss Wood. I like that. Makes it more fun to try and keep up."

Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a flicker of amusement breaking through her otherwise unyielding composure. "Keep up? You'd have to catch up first, Mr. Campbell."

For a moment, he just stared at her, the corner of his mouth twitching like he wanted to say something but was savoring the moment too much to ruin it. "I'll tell you what," he said finally, raising his glass in a lazy salute. "You keep me on my toes, and I'll try not to let that photo distract me too much on Sunday."

Adair lifted her champagne flute and clinked it lightly against his bourbon glass, her tone as dry as her drink. "Good luck with that, Mr. Campbell. I suspect you'll need it."

ooooOoooo

Colt strolled back to the corner of the room where his best friend Jared, a towering lineman with a barrel chest, and Jared's wife, Sadie, were stationed near the hors d'oeuvres. Jared raised an eyebrow as Colt approached, already grinning.

"Well, that looked like it went awful," Jared said, his deep voice laced with amusement.

Sadie swatted his arm lightly, though she was smirking too. "Don't listen to him, Colt. She didn't look like she ran off screaming."

Colt tipped back the last of his bourbon, setting the glass down on a nearby table. "Nah," he said with a lazy grin, his blue eyes glinting. "I'm gonna marry that girl."

Jared let out a bark of laughter that turned a few heads nearby. "Marry? That girl?" He shook his head, still chuckling. "Buddy, she looked like she wanted to throw her champagne at you."

Colt shrugged, completely unbothered. "Means I've got her attention. That's step one."

Sadie crossed her arms, tilting her head at him. "You really think you can tame someone like her? She's England's sweetheart, Colt. Doesn't exactly seem like your type."

Colt's grin widened, the dimple in his cheek deepening. "That's the thing, Sadie. She ain't like anybody else. And I ain't gonna tame her—I'm just gonna make her see I'm worth her trouble."

Jared shook his head again, a mix of disbelief and amusement on his face. "You're outta your damn mind."

Colt clapped him on the shoulder. "Maybe. But mark my words, big guy. Adair Wood is gonna be Mrs. Campbell one day."

Sadie looked between the two men and laughed, shaking her head. "I'll believe it when I see it."

Colt just smirked, his gaze flicking back toward where Adair was standing across the room, elegant and untouchable. "Oh, you'll see it, alright."

ooooOoooo

The roar of the crowd reverberated through Wembley, a cacophony of cheers and chants that Adair could feel in her chest. She sat in a plush suite, perched at the edge of a leather seat with her arms crossed, her expression carefully neutral as the massive screen flashed highlights of the Dallas Cowboys storming the field.

Adair wore a long camel coat draped over her shoulders, paired with dark jeans and pristine riding boots that looked like they belonged on an aristocratic countryside stroll rather than at an American football game. Her hair was neatly tied back, and her sharp, discerning gaze flicked over the scene below with the quiet disdain of someone deeply unimpressed.

The grass—her grass—had been butchered for this spectacle. She winced as players dug cleats into the turf, sending clumps flying. Wembley had always been sacred ground to her, a place of elegance and tradition, the kind of setting where the sound of a well-struck tennis ball against a racket echoed like music. But today, it was all screaming fans, flashing lights, and obnoxiously oversized screens.

"This is a travesty," she muttered under her breath, earning a curious glance from a sponsor seated nearby. She didn't elaborate. They wouldn't understand.

Down on the field, Colt Campbell jogged to the huddle, his golden hair catching the sunlight streaming through the partially open roof. Even from this distance, his swagger was undeniable. His cowboy boots might've been swapped for cleats, but everything else about him screamed Texas. He was larger than life, a walking stereotype of American bravado.

Adair took a sip of the champagne someone had placed in her hand earlier, her brow furrowing as the game began. It wasn't just the field that grated on her nerves. It was him, too—the golden-haired quarterback who had swaggered up to her days ago, all charm and audacity, declaring that he'd see her at the game. He'd made some comment about hoping she'd smile for him.

She hadn't. And she wouldn't.

ooooOoooo

As the game dragged on, she found herself watching him more than she wanted to admit. He moved like he owned the field, commanding his team with easy confidence. Every time he threw the ball, it was like watching an artist paint on a canvas—an irritatingly skillful artist.

Adair huffed softly, setting the champagne aside. This wasn't her world, and it never would be. But Colt Campbell? He looked like he belonged here, larger than life on her ruined grass.

At halftime, as the players headed to the locker rooms and the energy in the stadium ebbed slightly, a stadium attendant approached the suite with a note in hand. Adair barely noticed, her focus half on the field and half on the spectacle below—fans in oversized jerseys, faces painted, and waving flags she couldn't understand the appeal of.

"Miss Wood," the attendant said, his tone polite but brisk, "a message for you."

Adair frowned slightly as she accepted the folded paper. She didn't recognize the handwriting on the outside, but the moment she opened it, she knew exactly who it was from.

Miss Wood,
Looks like we might win this thing after all.
Thought I'd make it worth your while in case you're still bored to tears. I'll bring my checkbook just in case I owe you for showing up.
Here's the address for after the game.
—Campbell

Adair read it twice, her lips thinning into a line. She glanced at the bottom of the page, where a London address was scribbled in bold, almost careless strokes.

"Presumptuous cowboy," she muttered, folding the note and tucking it into the pocket of her camel coat.

"Something wrong?" one of her sponsors asked, noticing the faint tension in her posture.

"Not at all," she replied smoothly, her clipped tone leaving no room for further inquiry. "Just someone trying to be clever."

Her gaze drifted back to the field, where Colt Campbell's hulking frame was easy to spot, even among the other players. He jogged toward the sideline, his helmet tucked under his arm, chatting animatedly with one of his coaches. The man seemed utterly unbothered by the pressure of the game or the sheer spectacle around him.

Adair leaned back in her seat, smoothing her coat over her lap. She wasn't sure what irritated her more—that he had the audacity to send her a note, or that it had made her curious.

ooooOoooo

Against her better judgment, Adair found herself standing outside the address scribbled on Colt Campbell's note. The party was loud—music and laughter spilling out onto the street—and she hesitated, wondering again why she'd come. But something about the cowboy had burrowed under her skin, and curiosity, for once, had won out.

The moment she stepped inside, Colt was there, striding toward her with that easy confidence she both resented and admired. His grin was wide and unapologetic as he reached for her coat.

"Miss Wood," he drawled, his Southern accent wrapping around the words like velvet. "Glad you could make it." He slipped her coat from her shoulders with a care that surprised her. "Lemme take this for you."

For a moment, she could only stare at him. The fitted black T-shirt stretched across his chest, the sleeves snug around his tattooed biceps. His backward ball cap sat low, and those same boots—scuffed, worn, and unmistakably Texan—grounded him in a way that felt utterly foreign to her world of white tennis uniforms and immaculate court shoes.

She swallowed hard, refusing to let the sudden flutter in her chest show. "You look…" She hesitated, the word catching in her throat. "Casual."

His grin turned wolfish. "You mean I look good."

She rolled her eyes, but there was no heat behind it. "You're insufferable."

"And you're a sight for sore eyes," he countered, stepping back to let her into the room. "C'mon, darlin'. Let me introduce you to some real Texans."

Adair followed reluctantly, her gaze flickering over his broad shoulders and the easy way he moved through the crowd. She was used to men who were lean and lithe, built for precision and speed. Colt was the opposite—solid, powerful, and so utterly at ease with himself that it left her slightly unsteady.

For the first time in years, Adair felt out of her element. And, though she hated to admit it, a little intrigued.

Colt guided Adair through the crowd with an ease that seemed second nature, his hand hovering near the small of her back but never quite touching. She wasn't sure if the gesture was polite or calculated, but it left her acutely aware of his presence.

"Over here," he said, his Texan drawl cutting through the din. "I gotta introduce you to a couple of my favorite people."

Adair found herself face-to-face with a towering man who was introduced as Jared, Colt's best friend and teammate. His sheer size was startling, his shoulders broad enough to block the view of half the room, but his face carried a warm, easy smile that immediately set her somewhat at ease.

"Adair," Colt said with a grin, "meet Jared. He's the guy who keeps me from gettin' killed out there on the field."

"Nice to meet you," Jared said, his deep voice tinged with a hint of amusement as he shook her hand. His grip was firm but careful, as if he was used to dealing with people much smaller than him—which, to be fair, most probably were. "You're the tennis star, right? Colt's been goin' on about you."

Adair raised an eyebrow, shooting a sideways glance at Colt. "Has he now?"

"Don't flatter her too much, Jared," Colt said, leaning against the back of a chair. "She already thinks I'm a pain in the ass."

"Because you are," Adair retorted, though the corners of her mouth twitched.

"And this here," Colt continued, gesturing toward a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a mane of curly blonde hair and a laugh as big as Texas itself, "is Sadie, Jared's better half."

Sadie beamed at Adair, reaching out to clasp her hands. "Well, ain't you just a little thing," she said, her voice full of warmth. "I've been dying to meet you. You must have some kind of patience to put up with Colt for more than five minutes."

Adair blinked at the sheer force of Sadie's presence—big Texan in every sense of the word, from her booming laugh to the sparkly turquoise earrings swinging with every move. She wasn't what Adair had expected, but she was undeniably charming.

"I assure you," Adair said smoothly, "I've only endured him in short bursts."

Sadie threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, I like her," she said, nudging Jared. "She's got that sharp little British wit. Colt, you better watch yourself with this one."

"Oh, I'm watchin'," Colt said, his grin never wavering as he leaned closer to Adair. "Believe me, I'm watchin' real close."

Adair felt her cheeks warm but refused to give him the satisfaction of looking flustered. Instead, she turned back to Sadie, her tone dry. "I'm afraid I might need a drink to get through this evening. Do you happen to know where I might find one?"

Sadie laughed again, slinging an arm around Adair's shoulders as though they'd been friends for years. "Honey, I've got you covered. Come with me. The boys can fend for themselves for a while."

Colt watched as Sadie led Adair away, his grin softening into something more genuine. Jared clapped him on the back, shaking his head.

"You've got it bad, man," Jared said with a chuckle.

"Yeah," Colt replied, his eyes following Adair's retreating form. "I know."

ooooOoooo

Adair found herself at ease with Sadie, who radiated warmth and had an easy way of making her feel welcome despite the foreignness of the environment. As they stood by the bar, Adair asked her questions, genuinely curious about the larger-than-life woman and her world.

"So, your husband plays as well?" Adair asked, sipping the glass of wine Sadie had pressed into her hand.

Sadie chuckled. "Jared's a lineman. He's one of the big guys up front, protectin' Colt so he can do his thing and look pretty for the cameras."

Adair smiled faintly, glancing back toward where Colt stood chatting with a group of players. "I suppose that makes Jared indispensable."

"Oh, absolutely," Sadie said with a laugh. "And he reminds me of that every chance he gets." She leaned in. "We've got two little ones at home—Jax and Ruby. They're in elementary school now, so the house is usually pure chaos. We left them with the nanny for this trip, though. Needed a bit of a break."

"Two children," Adair said, genuinely impressed. "And with your husband's career, I imagine your schedule must be… hectic, to say the least."

Sadie nodded, her turquoise earrings swinging. "Hectic doesn't even begin to cover it. Between Jared's games and practices, the kids' activities, and everything else, it's a circus. But I wouldn't trade it for the world." She paused, her smile turning curious. "What about you? Any little ones in your life?"

Adair shook her head. "No, none. I can't even imagine trying to balance children with my career. Tennis is so… consuming."

Sadie nodded knowingly. "I can imagine. Jared and I were married before he started in the league, but I've seen what it's like for people who try to juggle family and a career that demanding. It ain't easy." She studied Adair for a moment before adding, "And you don't strike me as the type who does anything halfway."

Adair smiled faintly. "I suppose that's true."

Sadie tilted her head, her expression playful. "Speaking of, you don't know much about football, do you? No offense, but you've got that 'lost in the huddle' look."

Adair laughed softly, appreciating Sadie's candor. "Not the first thing, I'm afraid. It's all a bit…" She gestured vaguely toward the party, her clipped tone tinged with humor. "Overwhelming."

Sadie grinned, patting her arm. "It's all right, honey. Most of us barely understand the rules ourselves. But if you're stickin' around Colt, you're gonna pick up a thing or two whether you like it or not."

Adair glanced toward Colt again, his broad frame unmistakable even in the crowd. Her lips curved slightly despite herself. "I imagine that's true."

Sadie leaned closer, her voice dropping conspiratorially. "Word of advice? Don't let him bulldoze you with all that charm. He's a good one, but he's used to getting his way."

Adair raised a brow, her voice dry. "Oh, I'd noticed."

Sadie laughed again, clearly delighted. "I like you, Adair. Colt's gonna have his hands full with you, and I, for one, can't wait to watch."

ooooOoooo

As the evening wore on, Colt gravitated back to Adair. Despite the constant stream of people vying for his attention—fans wanting autographs, teammates slapping him on the back, and sponsors eager for a handshake—he lingered near her, drawn like a moth to a flame.

Adair noticed, of course. She was far too observant not to. While she stood chatting with Sadie, sipping her wine and nodding politely at introductions, she felt Colt's presence nearby, his gaze brushing over her like a physical thing. Every now and then, he'd excuse himself from a conversation or wave off a sponsor's overly enthusiastic attempt to monopolize his time, only to end up back at her side.

"You don't have to hover, you know," Adair said eventually, her tone wry as she glanced up at him.

Colt grinned, unrepentant. "Ain't hoverin', darlin'. Just enjoyin' the company."

Adair arched a brow. "I imagine your sponsors might not agree."

"They'll get over it," he drawled, leaning one broad shoulder against the wall next to her. "Besides, you're a lot more interestin' than they are."

"Am I?" she asked, her clipped tone betraying a hint of amusement. "And what exactly makes me so interesting, Mr. Campbell?"

"You're here, for one," he said easily, his blue eyes twinkling. "Couldn't've been easy for a posh little tennis star like you to brave all this." He gestured toward the crowd, the music, the sheer Texas energy of the gathering.

Adair's lips twitched. "I've endured worse."

"That right?" He tilted his head, studying her. "Well, I appreciate you puttin' yourself through it."

"Don't flatter yourself," she replied smoothly. "I came for the champagne and hors d'oeuvres."

"And yet," Colt said, his voice dropping slightly, "you ain't left my side."

Her gaze flicked to his, sharp and unyielding. "That's because you keep finding me."

His grin widened. "Can't help myself."

Before she could respond, a fan approached, clutching a jersey and a marker. "Mr. Campbell, could I get your autograph?"

Colt didn't even glance away from Adair. "Give me a second, pal." His tone was polite but firm, his attention still fixed entirely on her.

Adair blinked, momentarily caught off guard by the sheer determination in his focus. She cleared her throat, lifting her chin. "I'm sure they'll think you're being terribly rude."

Colt shrugged, utterly unconcerned. "Wouldn't be the first time."

For a moment, Adair didn't know what to say. He was infuriatingly persistent, exasperatingly charming, and yet—somehow—impossible to dismiss.

"Do you always get what you want, Mr. Campbell?" she asked, her voice softer now, though still edged with formality.

His smile turned a little slower, a little more genuine. "Not always," he admitted, his Texan drawl wrapping around the words. "But I'm willin' to work for it when it matters."

ooooOoooo

When Adair decided it was time to leave, she slipped her coat over her shoulders with practiced ease. The party was still in full swing, but she'd had her fill of the spectacle—and, truthfully, of Colt's relentless charm.

Colt, of course, was immediately at her side. "You leavin' already, Miss Wood?" he drawled.

"I have an early morning," she said, her clipped tone making it clear she wasn't open to debate. "Thank you for the… experience."

"Hold up," he said, frowning slightly. "London at night ain't exactly safe. Let me walk you home."

Adair sighed, adjusting the collar of her coat. "I'll be fine, Mr. Campbell. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

Colt didn't move, his broad frame blocking her path. "Humor me," he said, his voice dropping to a gentler tone. "It ain't about you needin' it. It's about me feelin' better knowin' you're okay."

Adair stared at him, her dark eyes unwavering. "That's very kind of you," she said, "but unnecessary."

Before he could argue further, she stepped around him and toward the door. Colt followed, his boots clicking against the polished floor. As they reached the threshold, he leaned down slightly, his drawl soft and deliberate. "At least let me give you somethin' to remember the night by."

Before Adair could respond, he tilted his head and leaned in, his intention clear. She froze for a split second, then turned her head just enough that his lips brushed her cheek instead of her mouth.

She stepped back, composed as ever, though her cheeks were slightly flushed. "Goodnight, Mr. Campbell," she said firmly before slipping out the door and into the London night.

Colt watched her go, his hands shoved into his pockets, a mix of frustration and admiration flickering across his face.

When he returned to the heart of the party, Jared and Sadie were waiting for him, both wearing matching grins that promised trouble.

"Well," Jared said, crossing his arms. "How'd that go for you, Romeo?"

Colt groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Don't start."

Sadie, unable to suppress her laughter, clapped him on the back. "You really thought she was gonna let you kiss her? Bless your heart."

"I thought I had a shot," Colt muttered, his drawl thicker now, frustration coloring his tone. "She didn't exactly tell me to go to hell."

"No," Jared said, shaking his head, "but she sure as hell sent you packin'."

Colt shrugged, a crooked grin tugging at his lips despite himself. "She'll come around," he said confidently. "She's just playin' hard to get."

Sadie rolled her eyes. "Honey, she's playin' on a whole other level, and you're not even in the same game yet."

"Guess I'll just have to catch up," Colt said, grabbing another drink and glancing toward the door she'd left through. "That's one hell of a woman, and I ain't givin' up that easy."

Jared laughed, shaking his head. "Man, you've got it bad."

Colt didn't argue. He knew Jared was right.

There you go! Let me know what you think and make sure your email opt-in settings are saved!

Happy reading,

Avonmora