22. Progress is Progress
22
PROGRESS IS PROGRESS
DAKOTA
W yatt Patterson has shattered the image I had of the little summer boy who likes making floral arrangements. I mean, he’s still that guy, but he’s also the man I can’t get out of my head now.
And all my worries are spiraling.
How is he so casual about this? Is he worried about ruining our friendship? What if the sex is terrible?
Oh my god, I bet he’d spread flower petals on the sheets, and we’d make sweet, sweet love to some classic sixties love song like “Moon River” by Henry Mancini.
I can’t do this.
I should think this through, but I want him, and it’s becoming a problem. Even when he does something sweet and dad-like, I’m still reminded of the shower incident.
He cuts up a watermelon for me and Vi? I’m thinking about him naked.
He tugs on that Rodeo Dad T-shirt? I’m thinking about that shower again.
Every time he makes banana pancakes, I watch the way his back muscles flex beneath his T-shirt, wondering what it would feel like to scrape my nails against his skin. I never used to look at him like that, and it’s hard to reconcile my best friend with the man I saw naked in the shower.
He’s my friend, but now he’s my sexy friend, and I can’t sleep with him because there’s no such thing as casual with a man like him, but oh, am I tempted.
So tempted.
We pass the next week knocking into each other like those bumper cars we used to ride at the rodeo fair, except he doesn’t seem the least bothered by the encounters. If anything, he’s all smirks and winks as he saunters around shirtless.
I need some space to breathe.
By the time the Sisterdale rodeo rolls around on Saturday, I’m wound tight, and I’m ready to let out some of this frustration on a bull. I’m riding Tacoma today, and it’s exactly what I need, a solid adrenaline rush to get out this pent-up energy.
“You seem stiff. Did you do your warm-up, darlin’?” my dad drawls.
I can barely hear him over the bustling sounds of the rodeo. We’re in the back pens, warming up with the other cowboys by the animal stalls.
I strap on my spurs. “Course I warmed up. I always do.”
“I’m just checking on you.” Using his boot, he scoots a small hay bundle to the side as cowboys scurry around the snorting horses. “You worked on those visualization techniques we talked about, right?”
“Yes, Pops,” I repeat with a hefty sigh. “I visualized not falling off the bull. Not sure how much good that’ll do, though.”
It’s the fifth time he’s mentioned those visualization techniques since we arrived at the rodeo. Colt Cutler puts the over in overprotective when it comes to me, but he tries not to show it. I tighten my leather chaps with jittery hands, trying to visualize staying on the back of angry snorting bulls.
He dusts his hands on his jeans. “And you’ve been working on your grip strength with that boy, right?”
I shoot him a salty look that he shoots right back. “That boy has a name.”
Wyatt and I are finally on better terms, but my dear ol’ dad is not agreeing to those terms. It doesn’t seem to matter how much he’s helped me, and he’s helped me a lot in the gym. He might be a sweetheart in the streets, but he’s relentless when it comes to farmer’s walks. And when his voice takes on that gritty, low rumble? I start sweating for a whole different reason.
“Yes, Pops. I’ve been training with ‘that boy’ every morning in the gym, so I’m good and ready for today. ‘That boy’ is out in the stands right now.”
He chews his bottom lip. “And he’s treatin’ you right?”
That shower inconveniently pops into my head again.
All those muscles.
All that water.
I clear my throat. “Yes. He’s being a perfect gentleman, like always,” I say, scanning the crowded stands for Wyatt. He shouldn’t be hard to find considering he towers over most people.
“Good,” he fires off. “Now, no more talk about boys—”
“Boy,” I correct. “Singular.”
He guffaws, and a few cowboys jump at the noise. My dad doesn’t laugh often, but when he does, it makes an impact. “Ah, please. Back in the day, I was just like you, darlin’, so you can’t fool me.”
Now that I think about it, there have been a lot fewer boys in my bed since Wyatt came back to town.
Zero, in fact.
He grips my shoulders, nodding to the dirt arena. “Don’t forget to stay loose out there on the bull. No more locking up your joints, or you’ll get thrown off. You got it?”
“Yeah, I got it. You don’t need to worry about me.”
The words are more to convince myself because, truthfully, I’m always a nervous wreck before rodeos. My thoughts race and race ahead of me, thinking of everything that can go wrong, and there’s nothing I can do to stop my worries from running wild other than get on that bull.
Sometimes, I wonder why the hell I even put myself through this. There’s really no point. It’s all for the sake of entertainment. I’m not saving the world, or changing lives, but I’ve poured so much of myself into this that if I give up now it will all be for nothing.
Not everyone finds their passion in life, and I think the ones lucky enough to find something they love owe it to themselves to go after their dreams with everything they’ve got.
My dad taps the brim of my hat again. “I’ll never stop worrying about you, darlin’. I’m your dad. That’s what we do for our little girls.”
“Little?” I scoff. “I’m in my late twenties. I think you can stop worrying now.”
“And I’m only in my forties.” My dad’s mustache twitches in a grin. “I don’t care if you’re hobbling around as an eighty-year-old, you’ll always be my little girl. I love you, darlin’. Always have. Always will.” He kisses my cheek. “Go on and finish up those warm-ups. You’ve got five big ones riding on tonight. Remember, stay loose and—”
“Flow like good tequila,” I finish. “Smooth and steady.”
“Right you are. Go raise hell.”
He strides through the animal corrals, and I watch him go, breathing in and out, in and out. My dad has been my constant, standing by my side through every high and low, and if something happened to him, it would end my world.
He’s not just my people—he’s my person.
I don’t keep secrets from my dad. After my mom left with @TreytheTrekker, I never had a choice, but he made sure to raise me right, knowing that nothing I could say would ever scare him away. That’s exactly the kind of parent I want to be.
When I got my first period, I asked him to buy me tampons, and he didn’t bat an eye. After I gave my virginity to the wrong boy, I cried in my dad’s arms, and he vowed to hold me until I ran out of tears. (I learned later he slashed a hole in the guy’s cowboy boots, but that’s neither here nor there).
Colt Cutler is my teacher, my best friend, and my role model, all wrapped up into one gruff-looking cowboy. There’s no doubt in my mind that Wyatt will be just as good of a father to Vienna as my dad was to me.
I head to the back pens where everyone warms up to do some stretches when voices drift from the animal gates.
“You worried about Cutler?” some cowboy drawls.
I peer around a horse stable, spotting some guy with red hair and a Texas tattoo on his bicep standing next to Brodie, one of the bull riders I’ve known for years. Brodie’s always cheering me on during my training rides, so he’s one of the good ones.
“Nah,” Brodie says, waving a hand.
“You’re not? Why?” the redhead cowboy asks.
Brodie straps on his spurs. “Cutler doesn’t have what it takes. She’s in her head too much. I doubt she’ll make it to the Pbr. Honestly, I don’t think she’ll ever be good enough, but I’d never tell her that ’cause she’d probably kick me in the balls.”
Tears spring to my eyes.
Why don’t you go ahead and rip my heart to shreds?
My hands tighten into fists. I can’t stand people who tell you one thing to your face and then turn around and say something else to their friends.
I’m tempted to tell them off, but I’m so damn tired of dealing with this two-faced bullshit that I’d rather save my energy for the ride. They’re a waste of my brain juice, and I can do this even when I feel like curling into a ball .
I head to the arena, feeling more determined than ever, but that comment stays with me the entire walk to the corrals.
“And next up, we’ve got Kodie Cutler, the Cowboy Killer!” the announcer shouts.
I suck in a shaky breath. I wish I could press a button and make all this self-doubt disappear, but the only way I’ve learned to combat this is to chant positive self-mantras in my head while imagining proving all the assholes wrong, which is exactly what I do as I scan the crowded rodeo stands for Wyatt.
I spot him in an instant.
He’s sitting in the front row, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and his straw Stetson cowboy hat, but he’s not alone. There’s a woman next to him with golden hair that matches her tan skin.
She’s beautiful, but they look like they could be siblings. Except, the way she’s tightly gripping his jean-clad thigh is definitely not how I’d touch my brother if I had one.
She says something, and Wyatt leans in closer so she can whisper in his ear. He’s close enough that her lips brush his stubbled jaw. A sharp pang pierces my gut. It rivals the swooping lurch I get when I’m thrown off a bull, and I can’t stand the feeling.
It stings.
Her hand climbs higher and higher up his thigh, and…
Wyatt shifts out of her reach, putting distance between them and turns to me, almost like he can feel my stare on him. My whole body relaxes when our eyes meet.
A huge grin spreads across his face as he gives me two thumbs-up. You got this , he mouths.
I smile back for him, and only him. Thank you , I mouth back.
He blows me a kiss, and I swear teeny butterflies start to flutter in my stomach. I feel like a girl with a crush back in elementary school, looking at him. How the hell is that even possible? I’ve known him for over two decades.
After overhearing what Brodie said, those two thumbs-up mean more to me than he’ll ever know. But when my name is called, and I climb on the back of the brown-and-white-colored Tacoma, I’m still thinking about those doubt-soaked words.
As much as I try not to let people get me down, sometimes, they still sink their claws into my confidence.
I blame that for the reason I face-plant into the dirt after six and a half seconds. It’s longer than I’ve ever stayed on, except it’s still not enough.
But hey, progress is progress. Maybe Wyatt’s positivity is rubbing off on me after all.