Claiming Cowboy (Dirty Cowboys #6)

Chapter 1 - Paige

“So Oliver has this friend…” Maya says while casually frosting another treat, her voice dripping with fake innocence. She keeps her back to me, but I swear she can feel my glare burning holes in her sweater.

“Don’t give me that look.”

“I’m just standing here, appreciating our friendship and thinking about spending more time with you. That’s all,” I say, grabbing three loaves of rye bread and handing them to a customer with my best polite smile. Once they’re gone, I busy myself wiping down the counter like my life depends on it.

Maya snorts. “Yeah, nothing screams ‘just friendship’ like you scrubbing the counter as if it insulted your mother.”

I roll my eyes. “I know how these conversations go. You try to sell me on dating like it’s a new pastry special.”

“Well, maybe it is.” She winks over her shoulder. “Limited edition, only available while supplies last. Comes with great arms and a smile that could melt frosting.”

I groan. “Maya, I’ve been in Aspenbrook a year. That’s not enough time to—”

“Exactly enough time,” she interrupts. “Twelve months, four seasons, fifty-two weeks of you avoiding men like a celiac with gluten!”

I snicker despite myself. “Harsh.”

“A year is a good time frame. And this guy? He’s practically made for you. Quiet, sweet, down to earth, always hanging around the bookstore, likes romance novels…” She ticks the points off on her frosting-covered fingers.

“Wow. A man who reads. How rare.”

“Don’t sass me,” she shoots back. “It’s not like he travels all the time, or has scandals attached to his name. He’s uncomplicated!”

I shake my head, laughing under my breath. “Uncomplicated sounds suspicious. People don’t advertise themselves as uncomplicated unless they’re hiding something.”

Maya grins wickedly. “Yeah. Like maybe a secret obsession with shy bakers who don’t know how gorgeous they are.”

“I appreciate your boyfriend and you so much,” I say, finally meeting her warm brown eyes. “I do, Maya. I just ... I’m happy as things are. I don’t want to rock the boat and have less time with you, my amazing job and my books.”

She pouts, then hugs me tightly. “Someone as sweet as you shouldn’t hole up in your apartment all the time. There’s so much more to appreciate in life and enjoy. I hate the idea of you not being as happy as you could be.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“Just tell me if I’m pushing too hard.”

I won’t. She always says that, and I never do.

Even when her comments about me being pretty and sweet and a catch make me glance in the mirror and wonder what she sees—where all I notice are oversized curves, five extra pounds I keep meaning to lose, simple brown hair that slips free from my ponytail, and hazel eyes that don’t feel remarkable.

But I don’t tell her it’s too much. Because she cares. She’s genuine. She makes time for me. And the pace of this life, of working alongside her, feels so wonderful compared to the chaos I left behind in the city.

There, being twenty-four, well ... twenty-three at the time, meant going out every weekend, seeing friends when schedules shockingly aligned, online dating or being set up by friends with crazy strangers. It was go-go-go and slowing down or taking a break was seen as lazy or letting life slip by.

“Do you have a list?” she asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I blink a few times. “Um… a what?”

“Come on, you might have just moved here eleven months ago, but you’ve dated before, right? With those curves, your sweet face, those cheekbones, those big eyes—you must have dated,” she insists. “And that means you have a list of what you like in a guy. I could start looking for you.”

Maya doesn’t normally pry, but today she isn’t surrendering the matter easily. I sigh softly. “I’ve had some… boyfriends, but it’s been minimal.”

“So flings?”

“No.” My face warms under her stare. I’m not the type of woman most men fantasize about, and I know that. I have more to offer once someone actually knows me. “I’ve had boyfriends, but it’s always been… safe, I guess. Careful. Like it never really went deeper than the surface.”

Maya’s face twists in confusion.

I’m insecure talking about it. I’ve heard it all before: that I’m a prude who needs to loosen up, that I should be more confident, that my old friends wished they had half my curves to reel men in. They’d “own it.”

But that’s not me. I only open up once I feel safe in a relationship, once I’m comfortable. And I can’t tell Maya all of that—it would feel like dumping a diary on her lap. A surefire way to kill a friendship.

Maya strolls over and gives my apron a playful tug, eyeing the way the waistband pulls in at my middle, showing off the hint of an hourglass figure that only appears when clothes cling just right, when my thick thighs and soft body refuse to hide.

“Honey, you’re lush,” she says firmly. “And you’re beautiful. I mean, damn. You’re the kind of girl who should be haughty and picky, but you’re so sweet that anyone who meets you falls at least a little in love.”

I roll my eyes and take a small step back, careful not to make it obvious. I don’t want to offend her, but space helps. It keeps her from noticing how jittery I get when she says things like that.

“Okay, fine,” Maya sings, switching gears in an instant. “Let’s forget about dating.” Her grin turns sly. “But we are not forgetting about the rodeo tonight.”

I blink at her. “The what?”

“Aspenbrook’s annual rodeo! You’ve been to a rodeo before, right?” she asks.

I bite the inside of my cheek to avoid answering, which is just as damning as saying no.

Maya gasps, bouncing on her toes. “Oh my God, you haven’t!

We are going to have so much fun. Ollie can’t come, he’s on duty tonight, but that doesn’t matter—we’re definitely going.

You have to experience it at least once.

The energy, the crowd, the whole thing…” She throws her hands up dramatically. “It’s addictive.”

Her eyes sparkle as she leans closer. “And Aspenbrook’s star is going to be there. Ryder Wesson. He’s rodeo royalty. Even if you’re not into dating, trust me, you’re going to enjoy the view.”

She’s practically glowing, and it’s impossible to resist. She launches into a breathless play-by-play of the last rodeo she went to—how the crowd roared, how every ride felt like the edge of danger, how it was basically better than a male strip show but with more grit, dust, and raw power.

She waves her hands like she’s reliving it all over again, her words tumbling out faster than I can keep up.

The more she talks, the more I catch myself smiling, drawn into her joy.

She throws in a few complaints about a summer rodeo she went to—too hot, too crowded, too many mosquitoes—but quickly reassures me that autumn rodeos are the best. Cooler air, smaller crowds, just enough chill in the evening to make the whole thing feel electric.

By the time she’s finished, I already know there’s no chance I’m saying no.

Still, I don’t quite believe her. Rodeos, from everything I’ve seen in movies and heard from others, are just noise and dust—cowboy hats everywhere, greasy snacks, maybe even cigarette smoke lingering in the air. I doubt it’s as packed as a city concert, but I know it’ll still feel overwhelming.

And the second we get there, I’m proven right.

Maya presses a cold hard cider into my hand like she’s bribing me, then drags me straight to the front row.

I swear I can see the horses sweating from this close.

The bleachers aren’t overly crowded, but the whole scene is chaos: dirt flying, announcers rattling off scores I don’t understand (and I’m too nervous to ask about), cowboys swaggering in their boots, and women in tiny denim shorts whooping like it’s the best night of their lives.

Meanwhile, I feel myself folding inward, trying to take up less space, desperate not to stick out. Maya is all sparkle and excitement, bouncing with every cheer. I’m clutching my drink like a lifeline, hoping no one notices how out of place I feel.

Just as I lean over to ask her what those numbers even mean for bull riding, which looks like pure chaos mixed with a little bit of madness from both the cowboys and the bulls, the corral in front of us clears and the announcer booms.

“Next up is our own Rodeo Royalty Ryder Wesson!”

“Oh my God, this is the moment we’ve been waiting for,” Maya gushes, clutching my hand. “Just look at him.”

I glance at her first—how she’s glowing, bright, buzzing with excitement—and even though I’m quiet, her joy spills into me. Slowly, I follow the line of her gaze.

And then I see him.

Tall. Broad shouldered. Deliciously tan, his body carrying the weathered strength of a man who’s lived every inch of this arena.

He moves with a practiced grace that belongs to someone who commands danger for a living.

Steel-blue eyes, sharper than the cloudless sky above, lock onto the crowd with a force that steals my breath.

His shaggy dark hair is kissed by the sun, unruly in a way that only makes him more magnetic.

A sharp jaw dusted with stubble, worn jeans that cling to powerful thighs, a leather belt with a champion’s buckle gleaming under the lights.

His fitted shirt strains against muscle that refuses to be hidden, and when he tips his tan cowboy hat lower, his mouth curves into a smile that feels like a dare.

Magnetic. Commanding. A bull doesn’t stand a chance.

And when his eyes collide with mine across the dirt, the world tilts. The noise, the crowd, even Maya’s hand gripping mine—all of it fades. My breath catches, my pulse stumbles, and, for an interminable moment I can’t look away.

For one impossible second, it feels like he sees straight through me. And that’s terrifying… and intoxicating.