“Classic middle child,” Raylan says with a little smile.

“You’re probably the oldest.” I sniff. He reminds me of Callum and Dante—competent and responsible.

“Yeah,” Raylan admits. “But I’m not the biggest. My little brother Grady’s got me beat. He was six foot in seventh grade, and he hasn’t stopped growing since.”

I’ve heard Raylan mention his siblings before. Always with a tone of affection.

“What’s he like?” I ask.

“A lot like me, but with worse judgment. He was always getting into trouble growing up, and not much has changed. His wife settled him down a bit—they’ve got a couple kids now. He’s the hardest worker I know. Does the job of four men on the ranch.”

“What about your sister?”

“She’s smart as hell, and good with the horses. But she gets bored easy. And she’s got a temper. Not with animals, just people.”

I like listening to Raylan’s description. His voice is so warm and animated, anything he says comes alive.

“And your mom?” I ask.

“She’s kind,” Raylan says simply. “She always made us feel like we were the most important thing in the world. But she made us work our asses off too, so that was good for us. If we ever quit a job before the last little bit of it was done . . . that was the one way to really piss her off.”

I want to ask about Raylan’s father, too, but I know from comments he made in passing that his dad is dead. It doesn’t seem right to bring him up. Especially since Raylan hasn’t mentioned any specifics. I don’t know if they were close or estranged, or what killed him.

“What’s the ranch like?” I ask instead.

“Depends. You like horses?” Raylan says.

“I’ve never touched a horse in my life,” I admit. “I’ve never even seen one up close. I guess that makes me a city slicker or whatever.”

“A greenhorn,” Raylan says, grinning. “Or a tenderfoot.”

“I don’t know if I like any of those.”

“Maybe just a girl who loves Chicago, then,” Raylan says.

We’ve gotten in the car and we’re back at my place before I realize it. Raylan is telling me stories about the ranch. He’s easy to talk to, and even easier to listen to.

Raylan starts cooking while we’re still chatting, and despite the fact that I hate cooking, he ropes me into chopping carrots for him.

“I’m shit at this,” I warn him.

“That’s because you’re holding the knife wrong.”

He comes around behind me and puts his hands over mine. His hand is slightly rough, and very warm.

“You gotta rock the blade like this,” he says, showing me how to rock the chef’s knife so it slices through the carrot in uniform discs, without sending the pieces rolling wildly in every direction.

Raylan smells nice—not like expensive cologne, like Josh. Just like soap and laundry detergent and clean cotton. There’s something natural about him that I like. He doesn’t put product in his hair—it’s soft and messy. He rarely shaves, and he’s got calluses on his hands. But all that seems exotic to me, compared to the tanned and coiffed men I usually date. Raylan is masculine in a different way—by not giving a damn about his clothes or his car or his social status.