I found myself pulling denim cut-off shorts off the racks — the kind that look like they could change a life, a few flirty “bless your heart” tops, soft jeans.
I complete my new wardrobe with a few summer dresses— soft, floral summer dresses that seemed almost made to catch the Southern breeze. They cinche in at the waist, scoop daringly low at the bust, and float down to end just a teasing two inchesabove the knee. The kind that screamI didn't plan this but I look amazing anyway.
The kind of dresses one seem to only come across in the South.
They just make things different here, I muse to myself.
I tell myself I’m being practical, building a wardrobe that won't leave me melting into a puddle by noon. Sensible, right? Logical.
Then I see it.
Lace. A delicate, barely-there set of ruby red lingerie — so soft, so sinful, it looks like it was stitched together with temptation and terrible decisions. Completely unnecessary. Completely mine the second my fingers brush the fabric. After the morning I’ve had, I deserve a little indulgence, don’t I?
The world can go to complete hell, but if you feel sexy while it burns, somehow it all feels a little less tragic.
I grab it. Shameless. Victorious.
The morning’s chaos is still clinging to me, but for the first time today, I feel like I’m one step ahead of it. Like I’ve wrestled back a shred of control.
A new outfit, a new plan, a new town. I can work with this.
I shift the pile of clothes in my arms, take a breath that doesn’t taste like panic…
And head down the aisle to check out.
Chapter 2
Grant
The bull beneath me is pure bottled rage, two thousand pounds of muscle determined to throw me off. I adjust my grip on the rope, my gloved hand tight as the chute gate swings open.
Time slows down.
The moment we burst into the arena, Diablo twists his massive body, trying to catch me off-guard with his first move. But I've been doing this since I was fourteen, and I can read the rhythm of his body like braille. I counter his movement, keeping my core tight and my free hand high.
“That's it, son!” Dad's voice somehow cuts through the roar of the crowd, distinct as always. The Taylor family occupies nearly an entire section of the bleachers, their whoops and hollers the loudest in the arena.
Eight seconds.
That's all I need to stay on this beast. Eight seconds that feel like eight lifetimes.
Diablo bucks hard, his back legs kicking toward the sky before he spins sharply to the left. A searing pain shoots through my right shoulder—the old injury making itself known—but I grit my teeth and hang on.
Six seconds.
The crowd is a blur of color and noise around me, but I don't see or hear them. There's only me and this bull, locked in our dangerous dance.
Four seconds.
Diablo changes tactics, spinning rapidly to the right before bucking forward. My shoulder screams in protest, but I refuse to let go. Not yet.
Two seconds.
The bull throws his head back, nearly catching my chin, but I lean away just in time.
One second.
The buzzer sounds just as Diablo makes one final, desperate attempt to throw me. I release my grip, pushing off and away from his massive body. My boots hit the dirt and I immediately sprint toward the fence, heart pounding as the bullfighters distract Diablo.
