Chapter 1 Willa #2
Even if my traitorous Omega is having a full-blown meltdown of want, practically throwing a party I wasn’t invited to. I can feel myself getting embarrassingly wet, and I’m definitely going to need new underwear after watching him ride.
Perfect. I’ve spent years convinced I was immune to Alpha bullshit, and apparently, all it takes is one smirking cowboy on a rank bull to prove me spectacularly wrong.
I push into the stream of people swirling through the alley, but then a sharp tug jerks my shoulder back. My work bag slides off, my coat snagging on the panel fence. I curse, twisting to free myself—only to whirl right into a wall of heat and muscle.
The impact rattles me. He smells like sweat, leather, and every terrible decision womankind has ever made.
Salt and dust cling to him, undercut by something darker—an herbal bite, clean and masculine, and deeply, dangerously satisfying.
The intensity scalds through my scent blockers, my pulse misfiring in my veins.
Huge hands, still gloved from the ride, close firmly around my elbows, steadying me before I can pitch sideways. I catch my balance with one hand gripping the fence, and the other pressed flat to his chest.
Time stops.
Fractured pieces of a second where all I know is heat. The hammer of his heartbeat under my hand. The rise and fall of breath that smells like pure Alpha, heavier, sharper than anything I’ve ever encountered.
And all of it is wrapped around me, holding me hostage in the space of one accidental collision. Then, like a bubble popping, the roar of the arena comes crashing back in.
“Watch it,” I snap automatically, because that’s safer than admitting something about him just casually rearranged my organs. “Ever heard of a personal space?”
I try to wiggle back, but his grip on my arm is steady, immovable. I should hate that. “Should” being the operative word.
His mouth tilts, like I’ve just told him a secret by not pulling away.
“Ma’am, just making sure you’re not lost.”
“Lost?” My brows pinch tight.
“The autograph line’s over there.” He gestures lazily toward the main gates, a grin tugging at his mouth. “This isn’t the place to sneak into.”
Before I can snarl back, he leans in the slightest bit closer, inhaling like he’s trying to puzzle me out. My stomach dips.
“You looking for someone?” he asks, voice rough silk. And when I don’t answer fast enough, he adds, “I don’t usually take women home from these things…” He tips his hat, eyes dancing as they drop to my palm still planted on his chest like I forgot it there. “But if you’re offering—”
I jerk my hand back. “I’m event staff, McCrae. Not your fangirl.” I flash my badge right in his face, and I almost whine when he gives me that crooked, stupidly sexy smile.
“I know who you are.” He leans in just enough that his deep, husky baritone doesn’t need volume to own the space. “Willa James. You’re the new vet—”
“Intern,” I correct.
“The one who told a stock contractor last month to ‘take his tiny dick outside where it wouldn’t spook the animals.’” The little crinkle at the corner of his eye does something treacherous to my lungs. “Heard you made him cry.”
“Hydration is important,” I say dryly. “He kept letting the troughs go empty. Didn’t like that the criticism came from me.”
Beau laughs—low, surprised—like he hadn’t expected to enjoy himself and just realized he is. Around us, the chute alley bustles: boots stomping, leather creaking, voices echoing off metal. But somehow it feels like we’re standing in the calm center of a storm.
“Congratulations on the ride,” I add, because there are rules, and one of them is civility—even when the feral part of me wants to drag him somewhere dark and demand why his scent crawls my spine like ivy. “Now move. I have a job.”
I angle to push past him, only to find him still squarely in my path.
“Me too,” he says easily, though he doesn’t budge.
He lifts one hand and braces it against the gate post above my shoulder, and half my view of the chute alley disappears behind the breadth of him.
He’s not trapping me.
He’s just… there.
Heat and height and a kind of watchfulness that scrapes every nerve raw.
My mouth should not go dry. My body should not lean instinctively toward all that masculinity. And yet, it does. My Omega is restless, reminding me it’s been years since I’ve had a knot, and the thought alone makes my body clench treacherously.
I fight the flush crawling up my cheeks, praying my blockers are still masking the worst of my scent.
“Your job is back in the riders’ pen, not breathing down my neck.”
“I’m off the clock.” His voice drops a shade, rolling low, and my knees almost buckle. “You look like you could use a break.”
I can practically hear how often that line has worked for him—and the suddenly depraved Omega in me snarls at the thought of any other woman taking him up on that offer.
“I look like I could use five minutes where a cowboy doesn’t think he has the right to get in my way. Now, can you be a gentleman and move the fuck out of it?”
“Ma’am,” he drawls, smile going crooked, “I’d never claim to be anything as boring as a gentleman. And something tells me a gentleman isn’t exactly what you want.”
The words send my nerves fluttering like a lick of flame, curling with his scent, and suddenly all I can think about are all the ways he wouldn’t be a gentleman—and how he’d make me thank him for it.
“Come on, pretty girl,” he says softly, teasingly. “Take a break with me.”
He’s a showman. A headline. The kind of trouble that ruins careers and mothers’ hearts.
And I can practically feel Felton’s warning circling overhead like a hawk.
I clear my throat, plant my boots, and tip my chin. “Here’s your break, McCrae. Hard Pass.”
The words land. Something hungry flashes in his eyes before he smooths it over with easy charm, like a lake calming after a stone skips across it. “Yes, ma’am.” His voice, deep and warm, caresses my skin.
He steps back slowly, keenly aware of the slow drag of his hand across my arm before he finally lets go. I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning to watch him leave, even though every nerve in my body is begging to check if that grin is still cutting a line through my night.
My radio hisses, mercifully. “James, you copy?”
“Copy,” I answer, grateful for the interruption—and annoyed that I’m grateful.
“Gate Four needs eyes on a hoof snag before the next draw. And there’s an assessment in the south barn, stall seventeen.”
“On my way.”