He’sdelicious.
I wet my lips, unable to look away as he scans the crowd, smiling and waving like the whole arena was there just for him. I’ve grown up around cowboys and farmers—men built by hard work, who know how to handle a field and wrangle livestock. Small-town farmland is practically my middle name. But this? This is something else entirely. None of them have ever looked like him.
He’s every tall-tale and cowboy fantasy come to life, and the crowd eats it up, stomping and screaming like their collectivenoise could drag him closer and I’m clapping again along with them.
“Wow, he’s hot,” I whisper, my voice nearly drowned out by the noise.
Lydia lets out a muffled laugh. “Hotdoesn’t even cover it.”
“Alright, y’all!” The MC’s voice booms through the speakers, snapping me out of my trance. “Here’s how this is gonna go! I’m gonna reach into this jar and pull out a few seat numbers. If your number’s called, bring your ticket down to the ring at halftime for some fun rodeo activities. Winner gets a prizeanda photo with our boy Hayes here!” He claps the cowboy on his shoulder affectionately.
“I wonder what the prize is,” I mumble, still staring at the handsome-God grinning and waving like the attention fuels him. I don’t give a shit about the prize. I care abouthim.
Lydia bumps my shoulder, her grin mischievous. “Maybe it’s your dream come true. A ride on him.”
I snort, trying to stifle my laugh because, let’s be honest, thatwouldbe the ultimate prize.
The announcer plunges his hand into a fishbowl, swirling the slips of paper with exaggerated drama. He pulls one out, squints at it, and reads the first number.
“Row sixteen, seat number eighty-nine…”
A cheer rises from somewhere in the crowd.
“Row twelve, seat number seventy-two…”
The crowd behind me roars again, people jump up and check their tickets.
“And lastly, row three, seat number sixty-eight!”
The stadium erupts, but I don’t move. I can’t. My brain is frozen because Iknow.I don’t even have to look at my ticket to confirm it. I memorized the seat number the second it was handed to me and tapped it three times for good luck before giving it a dramatic kiss.
Lydia gasps beside me, grabbing my arm and practically shaking me. “That’s you! You get to meet Hayes Walker!”
I blink, still in stunned silence, my heart pounding so hard I can barely hear her over the roar of the crowd.
And by golly, I do.
I was already set on remembering his name. Now, I get to make sure he remembers mine too.
Chapter 2: Regan
The rest of our rodeo night blurs together into a whirlwind of adrenaline, loud music, and excitement.?
One minute, someone’s riding a horse, twirling a lasso in the air while the crowd screams like it’s the Fourth of July. The next, they’re tearing through barrel racing. It’s chaos, and I’m here for it. But when the lights dim, and a massive sign flashes across the big screen announcing that it’s officiallyHalftime, my heart kicks into overdrive. I’m practically vibrating in my seat with excitement over getting to meet Hayes and trying to win this prize.
“Go get ’em, Regan,” Lydia says, giving me an encouraging nod and a shove toward the front of the stadium.
I shuffle toward the arena gate where the participants are being allowed onto the main floor as the last of the events clear out. Me and one of the other contestants gathers near the entrance, waiting until one of the employees waves us in.
“All right, head to the center of the stadium, and wait there for further instructions,” the guy says, gesturing us forward.
As we make our way across the dirt, the woman walking beside me introduces herself. “I’m Beth Ann. This is my fifth rodeo, but I’ve never been picked for halftime games before! I’m just tickled pink about meeting Hayes.”
She’s sweet, probably thirty years older than me, and wearing a cute pair of denim shorts and a green and white striped button up tied in the front. Hardly looks like real competition.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I respond with a smile. “I’m Regan Marshall.”
“Good luck.” She winks as we step onto the dirt and begin crossing the expansive space to the center where the MC is waiting for us. Suddenly, I’m very aware of my outfit choice for the night: my favorite Levi’s denim dress—soft as butter from being worn to death—complete with a zipper all the way down the front and thin straps. Cute? Sure. But practical for… whatever competition I’m about to compete in? Not so much. Especially if it involves anything athletic or sitting on an animal. The dress is short, falling right to the top of my thighs, and if I make any major shifts, the whole arena is going to get a show.
