She hums suggestively. “But would you let him ride yours?”
“Okay, it’s been nice chatting! Bye!”
“Prude,” she mutters.
“Love you too,” I say before ending the call and putting my focus on the last section of zipper. When I finally realize that it’s going to break the bag if I travel with the smaller duffel, I give up and pack everything into the hard-shell suitcase.
I drag my bag down the hallway and meet Rhett at the front door to leave for the airport. He holds a fist over his mouth for a moment to stifle a laugh. I suppose laughing at me is preferable to the scowling we started with.
“Is Kip hiding in that suitcase?”
My lips twitch. “Shut up.”
He doesn’t shut up. He says, “You know we’re gone for four days, right?” But he smiles at me. And it stuns me. All masculine confidence and playful allure.
I think it might be the sexiest smile anyone has ever given me.
The plastic arena seat is cool beneath me. I scroll through my emails, which have all been read and responded to. Even the incessant texts from my dad about how things are going, what we’re doing, and is he keeping his hands to himself.
Those parts have my eyes rolling, because even if Rhett and I are on friendly-ish terms, he would never be interested in someone like me. He’s made that abundantly clear. And that’s fine because I can’t take another heartbreak.
My ex, Rob, put my heart back together and then tore it to shreds. I wish I could say I hate him. I should hate him. But it’s hard to extricate myself from him. There’s something intensely personal about letting someone inside your body that way.
But right now, my heart feels just fine. Aside from the fact that it’s pounding as I look out into the dirt ring.
I have to admit, this is quite the show. The stands are filling with happy chatter and laughter over the din of some twangy country songs in the big stadium. It’s not some tiny rodeo, it’s full-on entertainment. Big sponsors, high stakes.
The highest stakes. Because from the research I’ve done on the sport, the risk of serious injury is enough to keep the average person away. Statistically, it’s a miracle that Rhett is still going at his age. That he hasn’t been seriously injured. Though I’m suspecting he’s more sore than he lets on. The painkillers. The way he flinches. The way he hobbles around like I do after doing too many split-squats at the gym.
It’s obvious to me that he’s in pain.
And I tell myself that’s why I’m nervous right now. The knee I have crossed over my leg is still bouncing as I click off my phone, but it doesn’t stop me from rapping my fingers anxiously against the screen.
When the lights go dark, I stop breathing. But then spotlights flash and the announcer talks about the points race for the upcoming finals. Rhett is firmly in first place, someone named Emmett Bush is sitting in second, and Theo Silva, the younger guy from the infamous milk clip, is in third.
Rhett told me earlier that he drew a good bull, and when I asked what that means, a slightly psychotic expression came over his face as his lips stretched into a toothy grin. “It means he’s going to want to kill me, Princess.”
Princess.
The fifteen-year-old in me fainted on the spot, because this time it didn’t have the bite of an insult. But the twenty-five-year-old me lifted a finger at him and said, “Don’t princess me, Eaton.”
He chuckled and swaggered away to the locker rooms where all the riders get ready, not looking concerned at all. And I left him. Despite what Kip thinks I should do, I’m not barging into his dressing room to follow him around. We all have lines, and that’s mine.
So, here I am, watching and nibbling on my lip. The energy in the arena is downright infectious. The smell of dust and popcorn waft through the stands as I look to the gated area at the closest end of the ring.
There’s a brown bull in the chute. I can hear its snorts and see a few guys approaching the metal fences. Cowboy hats as far as the eye can see. Firm butts in tight Wranglers—the view isn’t terrible.
Especially not when I catch sight of Rhett climbing onto the top of the fence. My heart stutter-steps. Yeah, I watched him on YouTube, but seeing it in real life is different.
There’s something about a man who is damn good at what he does that holds an appeal for me. Every step is sure. Practiced. Full of confidence. His warm-brown leather chaps, with darkened spots from wear, match his eyes. They’re the color of the tiger’s-eye stones I liked as a child. Bright and shiny, perfectly polished.