Tía’s straw falls out of her mouth as her eyes, like mine, go wider than the tyres on the four-by-four. The hood of the truck is propped up, some Tyler Childers crooning through the speakers, and Colt’s deep brown leather boots, no longer as unscuffed as they were when he first arrived here, are screwed in the ground as he leans over the engine, a wrench in his hand, giving something one final twist. He stands briefly, squints at his handiwork, then immediately dips right back down to the engine, and Tía lets out a little squeak.

I think our shock is justified. I could start with the fact that I’ve never seen jeans fit a man as well as they do Colton James Bradley. For that matter, I’ve never seen jeans fit a man’s spectacular butt as well as they do Colton James Bradley’s. Things only get more difficult for us when I drink in his very shirtless torso, the strong muscles of his back and arms moving when he steps back from the truck, rounding it to get to the driver’s side. The silver chain of his necklace glitters against his neck, its medallion flat against his chest. I get a full view of his impeccably chiselled abs, at least before he pulls the white tee half-tucked into his back pocket out and over his head, then adjusts the Ariat cap sitting backwards on his head, his wavy dusky brown hair peeking out behind.

Tía and I exchange a knowing look.

Colt plops down in the driver’s seat and turns the truck over. It lets out that same putter as before, except this time, the sound persists and the engine roars to life, buffeted by what’s now a Chris Stapleton ballad on the radio. He grins at my aunt, and then at me, the corners of his eyes creasing happily. ‘All done, ma’am!’

He swings himself out of the truck, as casually as someone who’s worked on the ranch their entire life would. I blink furiously. My increasingly complicated and increasingly involved feelings for Colt are one thing. But I cannot have this idiot catch me drooling over the fact that he looks like he was born to rock ‘walking womanizer country boy’.

‘May,’ he says with a cheeky little smirk, dusting his palms off on his jeans.

‘Where did you get your buckle?’ I blurt.

Colt’s eyebrows rise. Oh my god. May. SHUT UP. Please do not talk more about his belt-buckle, insinuating that you were ogling his belt-buckle. Ogling everything in the vicinity of his belt-buckle. MAY. ‘Your pop, actually.’

My cheeks are reddening faster than I can control them. ‘It … um … you look very—’

‘Cowboy,’ my aunt finishes unhelpfully. ‘My niece means to say you look like a very hot cowboy.’