Her brows lift. “Mason?”
“Yup. He doesn’t talk much to anyone other than me and his twin, and he’s already spoken to you three times today. That’s basically a love declaration in Mason-speak. I’m gonna have to start charging him rent if he keeps circling.”
Her head tips back and she laughs again—hard enough to make the curls bounce at her shoulders and my heart damn near burst out of my chest. God, I love that sound. Like sunshine laced with honey and just a hint of trouble. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Hey, I’ve gotta protect you from their ruley ways.” He says with his hands up in a surrender pose.
She crosses her arms, cocking a brow. “Their what?”
“Theirruleyways. That means unruly, but Texan. Especially Mason”
She laughs so hard it makes my chest thrum. “You’re insane.”
“Insanely territorial,” I correct. “But only about you darlin’.”
She shakes her head, cheeks flushed, and swats my chest like she’s not blushing all the way to her ears. She tilts her head, voice gentler now. “You think I’d come to a rodeo with you, wear your shirt, take photos of your world, and then turn around and fall for your best friend?”
My gut tightens, but I keep my tone light. “Wouldn’t blame you. He’s a good-lookin’ guy.”
Her eyes narrow as she steps even closer. “So are you,” she says, biting her lip and giving me that look.
That look that says,I would if I could, right here, right now.
My heart kicks hard against her palm, and her thumb brushes lightly along my sternum—just enough to ground me.
“Besides,” she adds, smirking now, “if I wanted a firefighter, I’d call the station. But I want a cowboy with rope-burned hands, deep pools of brown eyes, a wicked mouth, one strong pepper-chucking right arm and the balls to build me a custom river training course before sunrise.”
“Is that right?” I grin so wide, my face might split in half, pulling her closer by the belt loop of my flannel she’s still wearing like it’s always belonged to her.
“Damn right it is.” Her nose brushes mine.
The world tilts.
And suddenly the roar of the rodeo fades to background noise.
She kisses me soft, right there near the competitor tent, and I feel that jealousy slide off my shoulders like dust in the wind. Because yeah, maybe Mason’s got charm and ease—but I’ve gother.
And that’s all I need.
***
The crowd roars as I enter the arena, but I barely hear them. My focus narrows to the chute where my draw for the night—a mean son of a bitch named Widowmaker—is already pawing at the ground. I adjust my glove, take my position, and wrap my hand in the rope.
Just before the gate opens, I find Mia in the front row where Mason escorted her. Our eyes lock, and she gives me a small nod that somehow means more than the cheers of ten thousand spectators.
Then the gate swings wide, and Widowmaker explodes into the arena.
The bull is all power and fury beneath me, twisting and bucking with a violence that threatens to tear my arm from its socket. My shoulder screams in protest, but I bear down, matching his rhythm, anticipating each move a split second before it happens.
Six seconds in, he spins sharply to the left, nearly dislodging me. I compensate, keeping my core tight, my free arm high, my focus absolute.
Four more seconds. That's all I need.
Three.
Widowmaker changes tactics, throwing his head back before launching into a series of rapid-fire bucks that send jolts of pain through my injured shoulder. My vision blurs at the edges, but I refuse to let go. Not yet.
Two.
