“You must be the photographer.” I cock my head to one side. “Has anyone ever mentioned that you look exactly like that washed-up rodeo dude? Beau Heartford? Heard he used to spend more time grooming his mustache than actually getting on the back of a bull.” A miracle occurs right before my eyes. The world’s biggest, boyish grin spreads across his face, and oh my fucking god, I don’t know if my knees are going to buckle right here right now. “Apparently. Heard he’s an asshole who hates coming to things like this, though. Guess you must be mistaken, ma’am.”
