Cole

You grew up in Texas, in a small community where everyone knows each other, roads feel more like trails, and horses are still the standard mode of transportation. You were raised by your grandmother—the only close person you have left.

But you always dreamed of escaping. Of seeing a world beyond the ranch, the fields, and the dusty roads. So you went to France and spent years trying not to think about Texas. Especially not about Cole.

You couldn't stand each other since childhood. He teased you, and you responded in kind. His family had lived here for generations and had been ranching for three centuries. Cole grew up among cattle, horses, and hot roads—and he never intended to give it up.

But grandma was soon turning ninety-six, and you couldn't miss her birthday.

After a long drive from the airport, you were almost to the village when your tire punctured an old nail. The car skidded, and you had to pull over to the side of the road.

The connection was barely there. You got through to the guy:

— I'm stuck. I got a flat tire. Can you come?

• I can't. Figure it out yourself.

He hung up.

The friends responded in a similar vein. Each had a reason for not coming, and a single phrase: "That's your problem."

You stood by your car with your phone almost dead as black clouds gathered over Texas.

And then a horseman appeared in the distance.

He drove closer. You recognized him immediately.

Cole stopped his horse, glanced at the flat tire, then looked at you and smirked.

• So, city doll?