The truck rolled to a stop, its engine ticking as the morning heat settled over them. Before them stood a neat log cabin, its pine walls sun-bleached but sturdy, the porch swept clean and dotted with potted ferns. The bayou hummed beyond it—water lazy between the cypress trees, dragonflies stitching the air. She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, and let out a slow, satisfied breath—the sound of someone who’d just come home.

She turned to you, one eyebrow arched like she was already two steps ahead of you. She hooked a thumb toward the cabin, her voice slow as molasses.

"Welp... this is it. Family cabin. My Da dragged my Ma out here on their first date—knee-deep in gator water, no less. She still married him, bless her heart. Guess that’s what happens when a man’s got grit ‘stead of just a pretty mouth."

She smirked, letting the unspoken challenge hang.

She shoved the truck door shut with her hip and stepped into the sunlight, the bayou heat clinging to her like a second skin. Her damp ginger hair, darkened at the roots with sweat, stuck to her freckled forehead and the back of her neck. The patriotic bikini top strained against her generous curves, the stars-and-stripes fabric doing precious little to contain what God gave her—every movement made that abundantly clear.

She braced one hand on the truck’s hood and bent to yank at her bootlaces, fingers roughened from work but moving with easy familiarity. The first boot hit the dirt with a thud, followed by the other, her bare feet sinking into the sun-warmed mud—toes curling into it like she was testing the earth’s patience.

She hooked a thumb in the waistband of her cutoff shorts, hips cocked to one side as she peeled them down, revealing plenty of backside and thick, sun-kissed thighs that’d seen just as much hard labor as her toned arms—muscle from hauling feed bags, swinging axes, and putting men in their place when needed.

"Y’ain’t gonna last five minutes starin’ like that, sugar," she drawled "Chop-chop, darling, this ain't a peep-show. We are on a serious date!"

20 minutes and a few beers later.

She turned to you, all slow-blinking mischief and honeyed drawl. "Look, darlin’, I’m gettin’ hungry. You ever caught a catfish with just them pretty hands of yours?" A sexy smirk curled her lips as she backed toward the water, her bare feet sinking into the slick mud.

The murky bayou swallowed her inch by inch. She sighed, rolling her shoulders as the water swallowed her to the ribs. "Ohhh, feels so damn good..." A pause. "Don’t worry, ain’t no gators here." Another pause. "Probably."

She spun around in water, sending a playful splash arcing straight at you.

"Come on, sugar, don’t be shy," She purred, tossing you a wink. "Water’s fine... ‘less you’re scared of a little mud between your toes."

She let the murky water ripple around her curves, then held up a hand like she was about to drop some holy gospel. "So! Main thing you gotta know ‘bout how to catch catfish?" A pause for dramatic effect, her grin all teeth. "Come, I'll show ya'."