Oh, no. There they went again.

Misty Nelson fought a wave of panic as two trucks crept down the two-lane highway for the seventh time in a row. The lead vehicle had a huge camera contraption bolted to the truck bed. A man was seated behind the camera, operating it. He was filming the driver—whoever it was—in the second pickup.

Misty hadn’t been able to stuff her curiosity, and each time the vehicles rolled by, she craned her neck to see if she could recognize the star of this little production. Some celebrity, maybe. But who in their right mind would shoot a film out here in Nowheresville, Texas?

She’d parked her own truck—a well-used, ten-year-old Ford F-150—too far off the highway to catch a good glimpse. Her roadside stand was just outside Sawyer Creek and conveniently located in the V where a farm road crossed the highway. She knew every inch of that farm road for a good twenty miles. Knew every turnoff, every copse of trees that might make a good hiding place for an entire vehicle.

The two trucks were filming. It didn’t mean someone was coming for her. At least, not today.

She could tell herself that as many times as she wanted, but she didn’t believe it, not one bit. History had taught her otherwise.

The sun was sinking toward the horizon, and traffic had dwindled as the lazy Sunday afternoon had waned. She tapped the hip pocket of her jeans. It’d been a good take today, and every dollar helped pad her emergency fund, which made her feel safer. Though safety was an illusion, and she’d never fully rely on it again.

Emerging from where she’d half-hidden behind the cab of her pickup, she bent to move the large rock that propped her heavy cardboard sign upright against the front wheel. Farm fresh produce, the sign read. Her produce was fresh. Homegrown, too, just not on a farm. But that was fine. Ninety percent of her shoppers were from Sawyer Creek, and they all knew where her produce came from.

She’d only stopped running and settled temporarily in Sawyer Creek because she’d depleted her funds. She’d hoped to work as a waitress at the small cafe just long enough to save up the cash to run somewhere else—somewhere farther—but it was taking way longer than she’d expected. She’d arrived at the beginning of spring, and now summer was fading into autumn.

After spending most of her life in Houston, it’d taken Misty a while to adjust to the small-town dynamics of Sawyer Creek. Everyone knew everyone, and gossip was nearly as damaging as the tornados that threatened in stormy weather. Especially for someone like Misty, who was trying to stay off the radar. She’d hoped that if she kept her head down, folks would leave her alone.

So far, though, her hopes hadn’t come to fruition. People in this town didn’t know the meaning of leave me alone. But she was growing accustomed to the cafe regulars who asked after her every morning over their coffee. She knew who’d be the first one in the door, who’d stiff her on a tip, and who’d have news about every person in town, including newcomers.

Not that she asked. She’d become a pro at observing.

The predictability of Sawyer Creek’s residents had made it easier for her to stay put for a little while. It was also the reason she was struggling to keep from freaking out over the two trucks that kept driving up and down the highway, filming their way into town.

Surely if someone were making a movie about her newly adopted town, every gossipy tongue from here to the Garza farm would be talking about it. But she’d not heard a peep.

Should she pack up her produce and blaze a trail without looking back?

No. She had half of her emergency fund stashed in her truck’s glove box, but the rest was back at her apartment. If she was going to make a real run for it, she’d need all her money.

She rounded her pickup and lifted the bushel-basket of cucumbers and slid it across the lowered tailgate into the truck bed. The basket was still half full. She’d planned two or three weekends to sell off the produce she’d painstakingly cultivated over the summer.

The scrape of tires on asphalt brought her head around.

The black truck she’d spent the past hour spying on had pulled in. Not the camera-toting truck. The movie star’s truck.

Her heart pounded. What if it’d all been a ploy? What if the strangers had been watching her? Had seen her start to pack up?

A man got out of the truck, tall and muscular.

And beneath the brim of his black Resistol hat, he was familiar. She recognized him from his black shirt with the elaborate turquoise embroidery and pearl snaps to his big silver belt buckle and on down to the tip of his expensive black cowboy boots.

Not a movie star, but a celebrity in his own right, at least in Texas.

His boots crunched in the gravel as he moved toward her, and her heart continued to pound, but for an entirely new reason.

“You’re loading up,” he said, disappointment lacing his voice.

She may have recognized him, but she’d never heard his voice before, and she wasn’t prepared for the spike of interest she felt at the warm, almost-lazy drawl.

Not good.

“Sure am.” She tried to hide her discomfort behind a polite smile as she shoved the basket of tomatoes into place next to her cucumbers.

He sauntered closer. “That’s too bad. My mouth’s watered every time I’ve driven by.” He reached over the side of her truck bed and plucked one of the tomatoes from the basket. “For one of these beauties. You mind?”

“Actually—”

Before Misty could finish her protest, he raised the tomato to his lips and bit into it like an apple.

“Mmm.” He hummed his approval.

Her eyes riveted to his stubbled chin, where red juice had fallen in one delicious drip. Heaven help her, he had a chin dimple.

She frowned away her ridiculous attraction. “You’ll have to pay for that.”

Tad Starr fought back a grin at the sprite’s sass. His mouth had been watering for a half hour, but not for a tomato.

Since he’d caught a glimpse of her helping an older woman load a paper bag of produce into her sedan, he’d been bitten by the curiosity bug.

He’d tried to steal another look every time he’d driven by, but other than those few moments, she’d stayed hidden behind her truck. Didn’t guess he could blame her, with the Texas wind blowing dust every time yahoos like him drove down the highway.

This might be his first time home in nearly a year, but he couldn’t figure how he didn’t know her. Sawyer Creek wasn’t that big a place, and he’d grown up here.

She was miffed that he’d bitten into her fruit without paying for it. Her hazel eyes sparked fire at him, but behind the anger, he saw something else, something reserved and cautious. His Gran would’ve already parked her hands on her hips for his insolence, but this gal’s arms hovered at her sides, like she didn’t quite know what to do with them.

He grinned at her. “Do we know each other?”

“No.” There came a feisty jut of her chin.

Still gripping the tomato, he aimed his index finger at her. “But you know who I am.”

“Kind of hard to miss Tad Starr, famous bull rider, when he walks right up to you.”

There was something in her voice when she said his name. Something bitter, or maybe it was disgust.

Unlike like the buckle-bunnies who showed up at every one of his rodeo events, this woman didn’t fawn all over him. That fact alone intrigued him.

“That’s number one bull rider in the NFBR,” he said.

She bent to pick up a basket of okra from the ground, but not before he caught her eye roll.

That made him grin even harder. With one hip, he perched on her tailgate, then took another bite of his tomato. “How’d you know I’m not Tripp?” Most buckle-bunnies couldn’t tell him and his identical twin apart, though the folks of Sawyer Creek who’d known them for years usually could.

“Good guess.” She hefted the basket into the pickup bed.

She wasn’t a buckle-bunny or a long-time resident, but whoever she was, she’d recognized him. Not guessed. He knew it in his gut.

She brushed the dust off her hands and tucked a strand of blond hair behind her ear.

Tad was good at details—had to be, since he climbed on a bull’s back for a living—and he noticed a slight tremble in her fingers.

She was feeling this insane pull of attraction, too.

That fact threatened to stretch his grin to his ears, but he tempered it, knowing better than to let that show. He hid the relief, too. Why that particular emotion had joined the party, he didn’t know and didn’t bother to question.

“What’s your name?” he asked. He was only in town for a few days, but he’d learned that when an attraction this strong hit, it meant he should do his darnedest to get to know the woman or regret it for a long time to come.

She smiled tightly, but didn’t give her name. “That’ll be two bucks for the tomato.” She held out her hand, palm up.

He pointed to the cardboard sign affixed to her basket. “That says seventy-five cents each.”

She shrugged. “I was already closed when you poached from my basket.”

“So you’re price gouging me? A beloved son of Sawyer Creek, come home after a long season of risking life and limb?”

He studied her face, watching for the slightest twitch of her lips. Or maybe it’d be her eyes that would dance. He wasn’t wrong about the attraction between them. His gut was never wrong.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t offer even the hint of a smile. Nothing. Tough customer.

He switched the tomato to his opposite hand and dug for his wallet, but looked at her again before he opened it. “Sure you won’t tell me your name?”

She didn’t budge, not one iota.

He almost fumbled his wallet, juggling both it and the tomato. Finally, he got his fingers working and pulled out two bills.

Did Gran know her? The sudden thought cheered him. It didn’t matter if Mystery Girl wanted to remain a mystery. If she was from Sawyer Creek, Gran would know her.

“Here.” He extended the cash to her.

Her gaze ricocheted from the bills to his face, and back again. “I said two bucks. That’s two twenties.”

“I’ll take all of it.”

He watched the words build behind her shuttered expression. Seemed she wanted to call him out for being a show-off. Being a bull rider wasn’t always lucrative, but if you were on top, it was, and the endorsements were gold.

And Tad was on top.

She didn’t call him out. Didn’t say anything as she slipped the cash from his fingers without actually touching him. She stuffed the money in her hip pocket and reached for one of the bushels.

His producer and cameraman chose that moment to pull in, the headlights of their truck sweeping over both Tad and Mystery Girl in the pre-twilight moment.

She started toward Tad’s truck with her load, and he scrambled to stuff his wallet back in his pocket as he followed her. He’d been raised by a grandmother who’d be appalled at him letting the lady carry such a heavy basket.

A truck door opened and closed, and he heard the crunch of footsteps. Go away, Paulie.

But his producer didn’t pick up on his silent demand.

“This is a great visual,” Paulie chirped. “Really fits the hometown boy image. Let’s get the camera set up and get some footage.”

Mystery Girl froze, tension threading through her shoulders before she continued with her load. She reached Tad’s truck and hefted the bushel over his tailgate. When she bobbled it just before she got it over, Tad was there to take it the rest of the way, not missing the opportunity to flex his biceps as he came to her rescue.

Her gaze followed his every movement, finally landing on his face. She wasn’t immune to him, but she was wary. It was there in her gaze.

He could work with that.

“What do you say?” He flashed his most winsome smile. “Want to be a movie star?”

“It’s an internet series.” Paulie interrupted from somewhere behind him. “So not really a movie star.”

The NFBR—National Federation of Bull Riders—had decided to do a video series of their top contenders. It wouldn’t be on any big screen, but when they’d pitched Tad on the idea, the bigwigs had promised a ton of views, banking on his popularity to sell more rodeo tickets.

Mystery Girl turned away, her hair falling over her face like a curtain. “Get the rest of your produce out of my truck.”

She marched toward her pickup, and he followed on her heels again. He was a regular Li’l Britches goat roper tagging along after this girl. “Hang on.”

But she didn’t even pause. At the back of her truck, she hauled out one bushel-basket and set it on the ground, then the other.

“Hey, you mind signing a media release?” Paulie called to her.

She slammed her tailgate closed.

“Paulie, lay off,” Tad said over his shoulder. “She doesn’t want to do it.”

She shot a glare at Tad as she went for the cab, but he beat her to it and opened the door, because that’s what gentlemen did. At least that’s what Gran had drilled into him when he’d been sixteen and dating Cassie Lowman.

“How about I give you my number, in case you change your mind?” Tad said.

She closed the door in his face.

Okay then.

She cranked the engine—sounded like it needed a tune-up, badly.

At least she didn’t spray gravel when she hit the gas, bumping down the farm road. A moment later, her headlights disappeared over the next rise. He knew the Grantleys and the Byers ranched out here. Where was she going, heading that direction?

“Thought small-town folks were supposed to be friendly,” Paulie complained from behind him.

Tad had lots of questions hounding him. Who was that woman? And why was she fighting the attraction between them so hard?

Paulie’s complaint was easy enough to answer, even though Tad didn’t know her at all. “She’s not from around here.”