The silence was something else. I’d never experienced anything like it.

One problem, though. In my worry not to fuck up and get lost, I’d thought, I’ll check out the ranch first, and then I can go to my motel. In other words, I was approximately five hours early, so I wasn’t staying here.

I exhaled some smoke and rubbed a kink out of my neck.

The afternoon sun felt good on my skin. Hella good.

I’d shed my hoodie before I’d reached the Nashville area. I didn’t know what direction that city was in at this point, because I had no actual business there. The food festival took place in Franklin, a suburb. The music festival would bring us to a wooded area near Murfreesboro, its own city and another suburb. My motel was near there too. And Littlefield Ranch was closer to Franklin but still located in the middle of fucking nowhere.

I needed a drink. A long shower, a nap, and a strong drink.

I took a deep drag and leaned back against my truck.

All right. I knew where the ranch was now. I’d finish my smoke, and then—

The sound of a vehicle slowing down interrupted my planning, and I pulled down my shades to see a truck appearing in the blazing sunlight. It could be someone who worked for August King—or the man himself. Either way, I was probably in the way, and I shouldn’t be here in the first place.

I was opening the door to my truck when I heard a man holler.

“You lost, sir?”

In general, or…?

I shook my head and flicked a glance his way. Fuck. It looked like it could be King. The sun prevented me from seeing past a hazy image of him surrounded by a halo of light, but it reminded me of him. Now I couldn’t just say no and drive off.

“Just stretching my legs,” I replied. “I thought I’d swing by to make sure I knew where the ranch was before checking in to my motel. I’m one of the participants for tomorrow.”

“Oh.” He sounded a little surprised, and then he opened the door and stepped out.

Jesus.

The white tee he wore underneath an open flannel shirt stuck to him like a second skin and revealed a stocky frame with defined muscles and a broad chest. He was taller in real life, too. Undeniably handsome. A lot of silver in his hair. Well-worn jeans that hugged his thighs.

He put a polite smile on his face and extended a hand.

I’d studied those hands more times than I cared to admit.

“An early introduction, then. I’m August King.”

Yes, you fucking are.

“Anthony Fender.” I shook his hand, a warm, firm grasp, and I was glad I was wearing shades. Because I wasn’t sure I could eye-fuck him discreetly without them.