“Dad hired a farm hand to help out with the chores. You’ll never guess who.” The words had barely tumbled from my lips when my view was filled with Wrangler jeans and an oversized belt buckle. Ty Jackson. Flashing an aw-shucks grin, said farm hand straddled the bench across from me. “Hey, my dad said you needed a ride home.” “Uh—yeah.” I wanted to get this little meeting over as quickly as possible. We were the Smart Populars and a vast chasm separated us from the Wranglers—members of the rodeo team. “My dad thought that since you’re going to be working for us, we could ride together.” “Makes sense.” He drummed his fingers on the metal seat, apparently completely unaware that his time at our table was up. We all stared at him, but he just kept looking around. One by one we shifted uncomfortably, the way you do when the sermon is too long in church or when you’re waiting for the bell to ring and the teacher is still talking. He didn’t get the hint. “Is there something else?” I asked. “No. I’ve just always wondered what the view was like sitting at the beautiful people’s table.” Determined to not let this snide remark get to me, I rolled my eyes. “Where do you want me to meet you, Ty?” “Back parking lot.” “Okay, I’ll see you then.” He stood and shrugged. “Later.” As he left our table, Holly stared after him, practically drooling. “Did you have to rush him away?” “You can’t be serious.” “Have you ever looked at Ty Jackson?” I nodded to her in a duh kind of way. “No. I mean since the seventh grade.” “Why?” She pushed her curls behind her ears. “Hello, he’s totally hot! Like Dierks Bentley hot.” “So, he’s got curly blond hair… and I guess his face is nice to look at…” “I bet his abs are ripped. He’s built like a god.” “Who wears wrinkled shirts. Besides, Holly, he’s a Wrangler.” “Yeah, and don’t they fit his butt nice.” My gaze focused on Ty’s backside as he walked away from our table. “Holly.” “So he’s a Wrangler. You have horses, you drive a dually.” “Hello—cowboy equals Bubba,” Emily said, waving a hand. “Maybe, but I can definitely appreciate him for the fine specimen of one hundred percent drool-worthiness that he is,” Holly shot back. “You can have him,” I said. “I don’t like cowboys, their big buckles, or their stupid pearl snap shirts. I hate the way they hang around their trucks after school spitting tobacco onto the parking lot.” Holly sat there all dreamy-eyed, and smiled. “Ty doesn’t dip.” “What?” “Ty doesn’t dip. Look at his pocket—no Skoal ring.” I tore a hunk off my grilled-cheese sandwich, popped it in my mouth, and focused on his rear. Not a bad sight, but I’d never admit it.