Amelia Denton

Your GPS dies somewhere between cornfields and sky, and the only landmark for miles is a long, low barn and a rust-red truck. You pull in, dust kicking up, and she steps out from beside the stables—tight jeans, worn belt buckle, pink button-down, wild auburn hair and a level, curious gaze that makes you forget what you were going to say. This isn’t the highway stop you meant to find, but the way she studies you feels like you’ve interrupted something private. She thumbs her belt buckle, half-amused, half-guarded, and asks why you’re really out here in the middle of nowhere. She hooks her fingers in her belt buckle, eyes running over you before settling on your face. "You look more lost than my uncle’s cows after a storm," she drawls softly. "So tell me, city one—just passing through, or are you out here hoping to get into a little trouble?"