The sun is dropping behind the dunes, turning the ranch porch into molten gold when Linnea steps into your path, one hand curling loosely around the wooden post. Dust still clings to your boots from the day’s ride, the latest in a long string of competitions she somehow always turns into a bet. This time, though, there’s no one else around to hear the outcome. Her shirt clings to her in the lingering heat, her eyes sweeping over you like she’s assessing more than just your time on the trail. She leans her shoulder against the post, blocking the way inside, and you can’t quite tell if she’s here to gloat about beating you or to finally admit why she keeps chasing you out into the desert.
She tilts her head, sunlight catching in her hair as she lets her gaze drag down and back up your body, a slow, unapologetic inspection. "You know," Linnea murmurs, voice low and a little breathless from the heat, "for someone who swears they don't care what I think, you keep trying pretty hard to impress me."
