Chapter 19 #2
My boots hit the pavement hard, the sound of my feet louder than the distant engine.
The last thing I want is to be stranded on this back road in the middle of nowhere.
I push harder.
The bus isn’t slowing.
“Hart! Stop!”
Can he even hear me? Or is he purposely ignoring me? Watching me in the side window and chuckling because he thinks he’s so funny?
I sprint faster, trying not to think about the tightness in my lungs or the burning in my calves.
That asshole keeps driving.
My eyes lock on the rear lights.
Just a little closer, but my legs are already starting to protest, and that tightness in my lungs isn’t going away.
“Don’t—DON’T YOU DARE—” I gasp, forcing myself forward.
The truck speeds up again.
“Come on, come on!”
My legs are giving way. The pavement is stretching longer and harder to conquer with each step. The distance between us feels like it’s growing again, but I won’t stop.
Not now.
My feet burn. My breath is ragged.
I take another step. Then another. And another.
Then—
My body screams, and the world tilts sideways. My legs buckle beneath me, and for a second, I almost collapse, staggering to a stop. I press my hands on my knees, head down, and gasping.
The truck keeps going, its engine humming like a cruel whisper in my ear.
My heart pounds, and I know I’ve overdone it. It takes a lot for a country girl to overdo it. My vision blurs when I glance back. I have no idea the distance I’ve run.
I bend forward, hands gripping my knees. The ache in my muscles is deep and sweat trickles down my back. My chest heaves for air as I watch the bus taillights grow smaller and smaller.
He’s really gonna leave me out here.
Then the vehicle comes to a complete stop.
I straighten, still trying to catch my breath. Lord, the pain in my chest is excruciating, like my lungs are grinding against each other.
I wipe the sweat from my brow with the back of my hand.
He’s backing up.
Slowly.
My legs are still shaky, still screaming in protest. I refuse to show it, but my whole body is exhausted.
The bus comes to a stop beside me, and he’s leaning out the window with a smug smirk.
Need I say more?
He’s always got that fucking smug smirk.
His eyes trace over me, taking in my panting breaths, damp skin, and flushed cheeks.
“You need a ride?”
My chest burns at the mere sight of him, then hearing that condescending tone, I’m tempted to turn around and face nowhere land on my own.
“You think that was funny?” I’m still trying to catch my breath.
He leans back in the driver’s seat, pretending to look innocent, like he didn’t just lead me on a full-on sprint down the road.
“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” He’s thumbing through a book. It takes me a moment to recognize my bucket list.
I narrow my eyes at him. “Bullshit. You knew I was running after you.”
“Sounded like you had a plan back there, so I figured your sisters were headin’ back for you or somethin’.”
“Or somethin’?”
He shrugs, flipping a page. How did he even get his lying hands on my book?
“Besides, if I’d stopped driving sooner, you would’ve reversed my offer and blamed me for stoppin’. So, you know...”
He did see me.
“You dick.”
“Hey now, I’m a nice guy. Just wanted to give you the freedom of making your own choices.” He leans out of the window, my book in one hand, a mock-serious glint in his eyes. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone run that fast in cowboy boots.”
My choice is to punch him in the throat, but he’s up way too high.
I wince. I clutch my side in excruciating pain and take an unsteady step away from him.
“Oh my god, it hurts:”
His face drops. “What hurts?”
“Ohhh, it’s bad, Hart. It’s bad.” A sound of absolute pain thunders from deep in my chest.
I turn away from him.
“Shit—” His voice is full of concern now.
He’s already out of the truck, unprepared, unready.
“Hold on, hold on. What’s wrong—”
His hand circles my wrist, twisting me to face him. That’s when I slam my fist right into his solar plexus.
He gasps as I knock the wind out of him.
“That’s for leaving me to run like a damn idiot.”
He doubles over, the air rushing out of him.
It’s enjoyable.
I won’t lie.
A solid ten.
Best part of my day.
“You sucker punched me.” He struggles to catch his breath, slowly standing.
Figures, he’s only down for seconds.
I prefer the term strategic payback.
Or payback’s a bitch, buddy.
“Before we go any further, we need some ground rules,” I say.
He shoots me a glare, still partially bent over, as he tries to regain his composure.
“Ground rules? Like the ones you gave your sisters before they ‘didn’t forget’ you?”
Do not swing.
Do not kick.
Do not strangle this man with his own belt.
Or do all three, leave him on the side of the road, and steal his bus.
That’s my favorite option, and if I didn’t have my sisters to answer to, I might very well have followed through with it.
“No reckless driving,” I begin. “You’re not riding a stallion across open plains.
No detours. No touching. No surprise stops.
No crying country ballads on the radio. No deep talks about life, death, and not one word about my bucket list.” I snap the book from the step on which he left it. “And absolutely no shirtless lounging.”
He blinks. “Didn’t realize that was on the table.”
“It’s not on the table. Or the couch. Or anywhere near me.”
He folds his arms over his chest, and I wonder if he’s still trying to calm himself after having the wind knocked out of him. “It’s my bus, sweetheart. I make the rules.”
I cross my arms tighter, the book pressing against my breasts, refusing to back down.
“Do you have your phone?”
He shrugs. “Now that you mention it, I didn’t see it.”
“Perfect. No phones. No online maps. What about a navigation system? All RVs come with one, but since y’all converted this, is there one?”
He shakes his head.
“So, the only way to the rodeo is by using my map?”
Without breaking eye contact, he reaches behind his neck and slowly peels off his shirt. Each movement is deliberate.
The fabric slips over broad, sun-kissed shoulders, revealing arms carved with lean muscle and veins that pulse with quiet strength.
His chest is flat and firm, dusted with rebellious hairs that trail down toward the waistband of his worn jeans. Faint scars and freckles scatter across his skin, telling stories of long days under the southern sun.
He tosses the shirt over his shoulder like a flag declaring victory.
Asshole.
“I might make it my mission to break each and every one of your rules.” The darkness in his eyes threatens to do just that.
“Congratulations. You’ve just officially become the world’s most obnoxious cowboy.”
He chuckles. “Or the most interesting.”
“Hardly.”
“And you like country crying ballads.”
I do.
“And we don’t buy jerky from other businesses.” He snatches my jerky and throws it in a bush.
Then he takes a step so close that I can feel the heat of his body. “And it’s our bucket list: yours and mine. And when I say ‘our bucket list,’ it’s not just words. It’s a promise.”