He has this infuriating way of getting under my skin, making my blood pressure raise with anger, only to turn around and speed up my pulse with that flirty little grin of his, and the way he devours me with his eyes. Prior to moving back to Copper Lake—no, correction; prior to meeting Shooter in Vegas inDecember—I liked to think my self-preservation and self-control were pretty on point. Not perfect, because nobody is, but maybe above average.
Now, though? No. I’m weak. All it takes for me to fold is a pair of baby blues and a few dirty, taunting words. And it’s probably all part of his grand plan to get me out of the way so he can win.
I’m so lost in my head, I don’t even hear Cope walking up until he’s standing right beside me, slapping a hand on my back. He’s somebody else I’ve tried desperately to avoid all morning. I can’t even look him in the eye.
“How’s it going, man?”
I glance over, giving him a weak smile. “Oh, you know, super great.”
He plucks a piece of cantaloupe from the bowl that I just cut up, plopping it into his mouth, groaning as he chews like it’s the best damn fruit he’s ever eaten. When he’s done, I feel his gaze against the side of my face, but I don’t look.
“You know you don’t have to be embarrassed, right?”
A cold chill races down my spine, shoulders hiking up to my ears.Shit.I really didn’t think he saw anything. I know he’d woken up, but it was so brief, I wassure.
Laughing awkwardly, I say, “Uh, not sure what you mean.”
I canfeelhow red my face is right now. The pulse in my ears is frantic, a wild beat like a stampede, and I grip the handle to the knife a little tighter to ground myself.
Cope shoves me lightly with his elbow. “Right. We’ll go with that,” he quips, humor lacing his words. “But word of advice from one bronc rider, who’s constantly on the road with other dudes, to another: if you’re going to jerk off in a small space with other people, at least make sure you’re quiet about it.”
My head snaps in his direction as he chuckles and walks away.He thought I was jacking off.He didn’t know I washooking up with Shooter. But oh, my God, he thinks I wasjacking off.I honestly don’t know which one is freaking worse. And the kicker? I thought I wassilent.
Jesus.
My mortification hasn’t left, even after eating. If anything, it’s only gotten worse with Cope and Shooter sitting on the picnic table beside mine. It feels like they’re talking about me. Or staring at me. Would Shooter go along with the masturbating story? Would he tell him the truth? They are best friends, so why wouldn’t he?
“Hey!” Daisy slides into the seat beside me, a bright smile on her face, hair tied back in two braids hanging down the front of her shoulders. She always smells like fresh honeydew. It’s comforting in a way I can’t quite explain. “You’ve been quiet all morning. You okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine,” I lie, feeling like shit about it.
“Wanna go for a short hike down to the creek?”
“Right now?”
“Yeah. I think we’re hitting the road in a few hours.”
Nodding, I say, “Okay, sounds good. Let’s go.”
We both get up, tossing our breakfast plates away before heading in the direction of the trails, but not before my focus shifts to where Shooter is sitting, finding him already watching me, eyes narrowed.
What the hell?
Daisy was right when she said the hike was short. About a mile or so of walking later, we find ourselves at a small creek surrounded by a bed of rocks. Sitting down, the sound of the running water is soothing, calming. We’re both unusually quiet, and I know she can tell something is up. While I’ve only known her for a few months, we’ve definitely gotten pretty close since leaving for the circuit. Maybe I can talk to her about this.
I mean, it is her brother, so that may be a little weird…but maybe not?
Like she can sense my inner turmoil, she nudges me with her elbow. “What’s going on?” she asks softly, picking up a smooth rock and tossing it into the water in a similar fashion to how I watched Shooter do just last night.
They’re more alike than I think either of them like to believe, Daisy and Shooter. They have the same eyes—shape and color. The same dirty blonde hair. The exact same drive when it comes to rodeo and getting what they want. They both get small wrinkles around their eyes when they smile too hard. They also both hate grilled asparagus. I don’t know why I remembered that.
Glancing over at her, she smiles softly at me, and I try to return the gesture. I blow out a breath, deciding to just go for it. Whatever happens, happens.
“Can I, uh… Can I talk to you about something, and you promise to keep it between us?”
“Yeah, of course. What’s going on?”
“It’s about your brother.”
