I find Mia's eyes in the crowd. She's not cheering like the others, but the look on her face—a mixture of amazement and something darker, more primal—sends heat rushing through me. Her lips are parted, her cheeks flushed, her eyes wide with something raw and unfiltered. Awe. Worry. Desire.
Yeah, I felt that ride. But what I feel now—her looking at me like that?
That’s the real rush.
“Show-off,” Mason mutters as I climb over the fence, but he's grinning.
“Did what I had to do,” I reply, dusting off my jeans.
I make my way through the congratulatory slaps on the back, heading straight for Mia. She watches me approach, that indecipherable expression still on her face.
“So,” I say when I reach her, suddenly feeling like an awkward teenager. “What did you think?”
“I think,” she says slowly, stepping closer until I can feel the heat of her body, “that was the most reckless, dangerous, impressive thing I've ever seen.”
“But did you like it?” I press, needing to know for reasons I don't want to examine too closely.
Her eyes meet mine, dark and intense. “Yes,” she admits, the word almost a whisper. “God help me, I did.”
The air between us feels electric, charged with something neither of us is ready to name. I want to kiss her, right here infront of my entire family, but before I can move, Mama's voice rings out, asking for helping hands to carry food to the table.
The moment breaks, and Mia steps back, a flush coloring her cheeks. “We should join the others,” she says, nodding toward the gathering guests.
I nod and follow her, hyper-aware of the space between us that suddenly feels both too large and not large enough.
Dad puts the mashed potato down and sits at the head of the table, pointing at the open seat across from him. “Come take a seat Mia.”
We add the bowls of smoked brisket and potato salad to the banquet feast and I pull out Mia’s chair as she slides into the space next to me across from my dad. “So, tell me Eric, has Grant always been that good at bull riding?”
Dad leans closer like he’s about to share a dark family secret and my stomach turns. “I’d like to say he has, but you should’ve seen him as a teenager. Skinny as a fence post. Voice cracked so bad we called him ‘Squeaky’ for two years. One time, he tried to impress a girl by riding bareback. Ended up face-down in a cactus patch with his jeans around his ankles.”
“Iwas twelve,” I snap, horrified.
Dad shrugs. “Old enough to know that’s not where you put a cactus, son.”
The table erupts in laughter and I can’t help chuckling along at the memory.
As the evening progresses, I watch Mia interact with my family, marveling at how she handles my mom's affectionate fussing and my dad's inappropriate jokes with equal grace. She fits herein a way I never expected, holding her own in debates with Connor about business ethics and laughing at Christian's travel disasters.
***
Mia
The Taylor dining table groans under the weight of platters piled high with barbecue, corn bread, and enough side dishes to feed a small army. I'm wedged between Grant and Eric Taylor who’s at the head of the table, surrounded by overlapping conversations, laughter, and the occasional good-natured argument.
“Mia, would you like some pepper for your potatoes?” Celia asks sweetly, sliding a small ceramic bowl of freshly ground black pepper my way like it isn’t a biological weapon.
Grant's hand shoots out like he’s diving for a live grenade. “Mama, NO! Mia’s allergic to—”
Too late.
The bowl breezes under my nose and the betrayal is instant. My body seizes, my eyes water, and I feel it—thatdiabolical tickle igniting at the base of my sinuses like a pepper gremlin himself just lit a match.
“Black pep—AH’TSSCHHHUHH!”
Then another. “HAHH’TSCHHHuhh!” “aaaaahh”
And another, louder, moreorgasm-adjacentthan any noise I’ve ever made in public.
