“I might have done some research,” He admits.
My smile stretches wide. “It's my favorite. How did you know?”
He shrugs, “Lucky guess.”
And for some reason, the way he looks at me, tells me that I don’t believethatfor a second.
Chapter 29
Grant
The fairgrounds are packed by the time we arrive that evening, the air thick with the scent of dust, livestock, and fried foods. Lights strung between poles cast a warm glow over the crowds as the sun begins to set, painting the sky in streaks of orange and pink.
Mia walks beside me, taking everything in with wide eyes. She's wearing a pair of jeans borrowed from Lily and one of my flannel shirts knotted at her waist, looking so at home it makes my heart stutter.
“This is bigger than I expected,” she says, dodging a group of children racing past with cotton candy. “Do all these people know you?”
“Most of them,” I admit, nodding to a couple of ranchers who call out greetings. “Small town, remember? And the Taylor family is kind of a fixture.”
She looks at me with newfound appreciation. “You're like rodeo royalty, aren't you?”
“Please don't say that where my Dad can hear,” I groan. “His ego's big enough already.”
We make our way through the crowds toward the competitors' area. I should be focused on preparation—mentally reviewing my technique, stretching my shoulder, getting in the zone. Instead, I'm hyperaware of Mia beside me, of the way her fingers occasionally brush mine as we walk, of the admiring glances she draws from men we pass.
“Grant Taylor!” A booming voice cuts through the noise. Dad emerges from the crowd, wearing his ridiculous lucky rodeo shirt that Mama threatens to burn every year. “There's my champion! And Mia! Look at you, embracing the cowgirl life!”
“Hardly,” Mia laughs, but she submits to Dad's enthusiastic hug. “Just supporting the local talent.”
“Well, you picked the best,” Dad says proudly, slinging an arm around my shoulders. “Must say he’s looking mighty relaxed these days” pure amusement playing on his face.
Before Mia can answer, I interrupt. “Well, this has been great, but I need to check in,” I say, grabbing Mia's hand. “We'll catch up later.”
Dad laughs, waving us off. “Fine, fine. Save it for when she's family.”
I feel Mia tense beside me and curse my father's lack of fucking filter. We're barely defining what we are to each other, and he's practically planning a wedding.
“Sorry about that,” I mutter as we move toward the registration booth. “Dad doesn't believe in subtlety.”
“I've noticed,” she says, but there's amusement in her tone rather than discomfort. “It's actually refreshing. My father's the opposite—everything important goes unsaid.”
I squeeze her hand. “Well, in the Taylor family, nothing goes unsaid. Mostly to our embarrassment.”
After checking in, I lead Mia to the competitors' area where riders are preparing. Some stretch, others pray, all with the same intensity in their eyes—the focus of men about to face down a ton of angry muscle.
“Grant!” Mason appears, swaggering over with his riding vest half unzipped and that cocky glint in his eye. He pulls off his gloves and tosses them over one shoulder like he owns the place.
“About time you showed up brother.”
“Had to give the competition a head start,” I joke, bumping his shoulder with my fist. “Mason, you remember Mia.”
Mason studies her with that quiet intensity that unnerves most people. “Your mermaid. Hard to forget.”
“Ha! Good to see you again,” Mia says, meeting his gaze without flinching. “I hear you're pretty good at this bull riding thing too.”
“Pretty good,” Mason agrees with a modest shrug. “Your boy here is better, though. When his shoulder isn't held together with duct tape and wishful thinking.”
I roll my eyes. “My shoulder's fine.”
