Page 6 of Autumn Kissed

His whiskers are a shade darker than his brown hair, giving him an unkempt, easygoing vibe—like the Archer I’ve always thought him to be.

Truth be told, I don’t know much about him as a person, other than he’s a heartthrob, has horses, and runs the local stables near his aunt’s property, Carver Maple Farm.

Right now, that’s enough for me.

“Definitely with the scruff,” I reply.

He sits a little taller in the truck seat.

“Have you added any more horses to your stables in the last few years?” I ask next.

“A few ponies and surefooted geldings for trail rides.”

“Have you ridden any bucking broncs or bulls lately?”

Oh, he was also a pro-rodeo star. But that’s all I know, I swear.

“All right, you’re killing me,” he says with a shake of his head. “How do you know all this?”

I laugh. “I told you, everyone knows everything about you in Autumn Ridge.”

He narrows his eyes. “I guess.”

I stare straight ahead at the black, curved road. I don’t know if what I said is true. Everyone might know all these things about him. I just don’t want him to think I was his teenage stalker—even if I was.

Was, being the keyword. My dormant crush might be having a bit of a revival, but I’m much older now and much more experienced in the ways of romance and boyfriends and attractive men.

Even if Archer is still the hottest guy I’ve ever known.

We’re closer to town now. The small white houses tucked away in the green fields become more prevalent between the groves of trees. I’m not as anxious to get home as I was before.

“All right,” I say. “I can tell you’re bursting. Go on.”

“Have you ridden at Horseshoe Holler?” Archer asks.

“A time or two.”

“And we’ve talked before?”

“Yup.”

He ran his fingers through his hair with another shake of his head. “I don’t know how I could’ve forgotten you.”

He gives me an apologetic look, but I wave my hand in a passive gesture. “It’s fine. Remember, I’m forgettable.”

“That’s not the word I’d use to describe the last fifteen minutes with you.”

My body threatens to float to the roof of his truck like Uncle Albert in Mary Poppins.

I ask two more questions—how his stables are faring and how his Aunt May is doing—which produce another flabbergasted shake of his head until it’s his turn again. “Where have you been the last few years?”

“College.”

“What college?”

“Questrom School of Business at Boston University.”

“Ah, very prestigious.”