Chapter Fourteen
I stand just outside The Soused Cow, the door swinging shut behind me, muting the music and the roar of the rowdy crowd that’s still going strong inside.
The night air hits me like a shock, cool against my overheated skin.
I pull in a deep breath—needing it, needing space.
My heart’s still hammering in my chest from what just happened.
Bryce kissed me.
Or maybe I kissed him. Hell, I don’t even know what that was.
One second, we were flirting at the table, and the next, I was pinned against the men’s room door in the dark hallway.
His hands were on my body and mine were in his hair.
Our mouths exploring each other. It wasn’t gentle, wasn’t polite; it was heat and hunger and pure chaos.
And the worst part? I liked it. I wanted more.
I lean back against the rough log siding of the bar, tilting my head toward the stars, trying to calm down.
God help me, I don’t even know what would’ve happened if that poor man hadn’t come stumbling up on us, needing to take a leak.
We’d probably still be in there, tearing each other’s clothes off like a couple of horny teenagers.
My lips still tingle. My pulse is still racing.
And I hate that.
Because I’m supposed to be the one in control. I’m the one who doesn’t get tangled up in messy things like cowboys with sinful smiles and crafty hands that know exactly where to go.
I exhale slowly, forcing my fists to unclench. “Get a grip, Charli,” I mutter to myself.
The parking lot’s mostly quiet, just one or two people wandering toward the trucks scattered across the gravel, a few taillights glowing faintly in the dark. A couple of soft conversations drifting on the wind.
Then I spot them.
Three women standing near the corner of the lot, clustered together under the yellow glow of a light pole. I recognize them immediately—they were the ones from earlier, the little trio that kept dancing right in front of our table, all long legs and tight denim and too much makeup.
The one with the black hair—she’s the ringleader. The same one who was pressed up against Bryce at the bar. She’s leaning against a tailgate now, holding a lit cigarette to her devil-red lips, flicking her hair over her shoulder and pretending not to look at the door every time it opens.
But I see her.
And I know exactly who she’s waiting for.
My blood simmers hot in my veins. It’s not jealousy; it’s irritation. That’s what I tell myself anyway. Because I don’t do jealous. I don’t do cowboys. I don’t do any of this shit.
The door swings open again, and for a second, my stomach tightens.
It’s not Bryce; it’s my sisters.
They come spilling out in a giggling, tottering mess of boots and hair, corralled by Cabe and Caison, like a couple of patient ranch hands wrangling wild colts.
Matty looks tired but content, tucked under Caison’s arm; Shelby’s still grinning ear to ear; and Harleigh—Lord, Harleigh—looks like she’s had one too many tequila shots as she tumbles forward.
Cabe catches her before her knees hit the concrete.
Bryce steps out after them. He pauses in the doorway, scanning the parking lot, appearing as cool and unaffected as ever, and the moment his eyes land on me, that lazy, cocky grin spreads across his face.
“There you are!” Harleigh yells when she spots me. “We’ve been looking everywhere for you!”
“You found me,” I say dryly, pushing off the wall.
Matty waves and blows drunken kisses, calling a good night to all of us as Caison tightens his arm around her waist, steering her toward his truck. There’s a gentleness in his touch, something protective. It makes me smile.
Shelby, of course, can’t let it end without making things awkward. “Night, sissy!” she whisper-yells, cupping her hands around her mouth. “Enjoy all the birthday sex!”
“Shelby!” Matty hisses, turning, a blush hitting her cheeks.
Cabe groans. “All right, let’s get you three to my truck before one of you ends up in the bushes.”
I roll my eyes but fall into step beside them as the group makes its way across the gravel. The black-haired girl and her friends are still hanging out by the lamppost, pretending not to notice us. Until our little caravan approaches.
She perks up immediately, tossing her hair and giving Bryce a slow, sexy little wave.
He nods politely at her, but he doesn’t wave back. Instead, his hand settles on the small of my back—warm, firm, confident—as he guides me forward toward Cabe’s truck.
He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t even look down at me, but the gesture sends a spark through me that I feel clear down to my toes.
That hand shouldn’t feel as good as it does. And I shouldn’t care, but I shoot her a victorious look as we pass.
She notices. I see the flicker in her expression—surprise and irritation—and it gives me a shameful sort of satisfaction.
When we reach the truck, I call, “Shotgun!” before anyone else can.
Because there’s no way in hell I’m sitting in the back seat, next to Bryce, again tonight. Not after that hallway.
Harleigh frowns at me. “You’d better make good song choices, woman.”
“How many times do I have to tell you women that you don’t mess with a man’s radio?” Cabe says as he opens the back door for her.
On the ride home, everyone’s loud except for me and Bryce. Harleigh and Shelby are bouncing around the back seat and singing at the top of their lungs while Cabe keeps yelling for them to keep their asses in their seats because he can’t see out his rearview mirror.
I stare out the window, watching the dark fields blur past, pretending I don’t feel Bryce’s presence behind me like a weight.
He’s silent too. Too silent.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Why are you guys so quiet?” Shelby slurs from beside him in the back seat. “What, y’all have a fight or somethin’?”
I turn just enough to give her a look that says, Shut your mouth, or I’ll make you regret it.
She grins and holds up her hands. “All right, all right. Touchy.”
Just then, Harleigh plucks the cowboy hat off of his head from his other side. His eyes flicker to her as she places it on her head.
“Is it true, what they say about cowboys and their hats?”
“What’s that?” he asks.
“You know, that the girl who wears the hat rides the cowboy?”
I instantly turn and snatch the dark brown Resistol crown hat from her head and hand it back to him. “Leave him alone, Har.”
“What? I was just curious,” she says innocently.
“You were being a brat and trying to get a rise out of him,” I accuse before facing forward again, crossing my arms. I can feel Bryce’s eyes on the back of my head like a physical touch.
“You got a rise out of someone all right,” Shelby mumbles under her breath.
By the time we pull up the long drive to the ranch, I’m more exhausted than drunk. Cabe parks in front of the house, and everyone tumbles out, saying their good nights.
Bryce lingers near the tailgate as the girls drift toward the porch.
Harleigh’s already halfway up the steps, singing something off-key. Shelby backtracks and gives Bryce a quick hug good night, and Cabe claps him on the shoulder before heading in. I start to follow them when I feel him coming closer.
He stops just behind me. I can feel his breath against my neck.
“Sweet dreams, Chuck,” he says, low and rough, right against my ear.
I freeze.
He steps back before I can respond. Then he turns, heading down the path toward his cabin, boots crunching softly in the gravel.
I stand there for a long moment, watching him disappear into the darkness behind the house.
Only when he’s gone do I let out a shaky breath.
“Sweet dreams, my ass,” I mutter, stomping up the steps.
Inside, the house is quiet, except for the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of the old clock in the hall, and Shelby’s and Harleigh’s whispers as they head up to their rooms. Grandma, Grandpa, and Daddy all long retired for the night.
I climb the stairs, my head spinning a little—not from the tequila, but from him.
A complication I don’t need in my life.
In my room, I peel off my dress and toss it over a chair. My boots land with a heavy thud on the floor. After quickly showering, I pull on one of my old oversize Wildhaven Storm Ranch T-shirts and crawl into bed.
The sheets are cool against my skin.
But sleep isn’t about to happen. I’m still too keyed up.
My brain’s too full—of that kiss, his gravelly voice, the feel of his hands on me, the look of satisfaction in his eyes when he found me wet for him.
With a sigh, I reach for my tablet on the nightstand. My thumb hovers for a second before curiosity wins.
I type his name into the search bar.
Bryce Raintree.
The results populate instantly—interviews, sponsorship ads, highlight reels, old rodeo footage. There are photos too—him grinning, hat tipped low, holding a shiny gold championship belt buckle high above his head.
I click on a video titled Bryce Raintree: Best Rides of the Pbr World Finals.
The screen lights up with motion and sound—the crack of the gate, the roar of the crowd, the thundering snort of a bull exploding out of the chute.
There he is.
Bryce, maybe five or more years ago, but still him. Wild hair, clean-shaven jaw set, one hand gripping the bull rope tight while the other is in the air, perfectly balanced. The power in his body is unreal—every muscle working in rhythm, fluid and strong, like he’s part of the animal.
The announcer’s voice booms over the crowd, “Eight seconds, ladies and gentlemen! Bryce Raintree takes the win at the Pbr World Finals! You’re a world champion now, young man.”
The crowd goes wild. The camera zooms in on his face—sweaty, beaming, dust-coated.
He tips his hat to the fans, to the camera. That same grin he gave me in the bar flashes across the screen, and damn it if it doesn’t make my heart skip.
I pull my knees up to my chest, watching ride after ride, bull after bull, each one more violent than the last. Bryce never flinches. Never loses focus. He moves like he was born to do it, born to chase danger and flirt with the line between control and chaos.
And I get it.
I finally get it.
Why he’s cocky. Why he walks around like he’s invincible. Why that same wild spark in him draws me in, even when I know better.
Because there’s something about him that’s raw and fearless and a little bit untamed.
And maybe that’s what scares me most. Because somewhere deep down, I know I recognize it. Because I have all those same things whirling inside of me.
My door clicks open, and Shelby and Harleigh come bounding inside my room. Both of them with clean faces and dressed for bed.
Harleigh plops down beside me. “Whatcha watching?”
“Nothing,” I say as I try to click out of the screen, but she grabs the tablet from me.
“Whoa. Is that your cowboy?” Shelby climbs in beside her.
“He’s not my cowboy,” I say as I scoot over to make room for them.
“Could have fooled me,” Harleigh mumbles as she clicks to restart the footage.
The next ride is titled Bryce Raintree Rides an Unrideable Bull.
The video opens with an announcement over a loudspeaker, barely audible over the noise from the audience, and him crouched on the back of a snorting bull with a killer gleam in its eyes.
The crowd roars, and the announcer’s voice booms over the rumble, but all I see is him.
He’s in a black T-shirt, hidden under a protective leather vest, muscles coiled like springs under the fabric.
One hand grips the bull rope; the other hovers, steady and loose.
The camera pans closer, and I catch the tattoos snaking up his left arm, dark ink against tanned skin.
Sweat glistens on him beneath the arena lights.
His jaw is set, and his eyes are locked forward beneath the brim of his hat.
Determined.
He gives a quick nod, and the chute gate flies open.
The bull explodes out, twisting, bucking, kicking sky-high with every ounce of fury in its body.
The crowd gasps. I do too. But he doesn’t budge.
His body moves with the animal, fluid and strong, every muscle working to stay centered while the beast beneath him tries to throw him to the dirt floor like a rag doll.
Eight seconds sounds short—until you watch a man fight with all he has to stay upright on an angry two-thousand-pound animal.
The announcer’s counting down; the bull is spinning so fast that it blurs.
For a moment, it’s hard to tell where Bryce ends, and the bull begins.
Then the buzzer sounds. He lets go, launches clear, hits the dirt, rolls, pops up like it’s nothing.
The bull kicks dust as the clowns rush in, but he just stands there, in his best and chaos, chest heaving, arm raised in victory.
The camera zooms in on his face—sweat, mud, a slow grin curling beneath that beard. He’s breathing hard, adrenaline still burning in his eyes.
I don’t realize I’ve been holding my breath until the screen freezes on that image of him, larger than life.
Eight seconds. That’s all it takes to fall a little bit in love with danger.
“Wow,” they both whisper as Harleigh closes the tablet and sets it aside, flopping back against my pillows. “No wonder you’re all hot and bothered.”
“I’m not hot and bothered,” I say, but it comes out in an unconvincing squeak.
“I am, after watching that,” Harleigh says.
“Me too,” Shelby quips. “If I were you, I’d be riding the boots off that cowboy right now.”
I cut my eyes to her, narrowing them. “Time for you two to go to bed,” I snap.
Harleigh laughs. “Nope. Not bothered by him at all.”
I growl at them both.
“Fine. We’ll go,” Shelby says as she stands, tugging Harleigh up with her. “By the way, I can see his cabin from my bedroom window. The lights were still on, in case you were considering taking a little midnight walk in the woods.”
She waggles her eyebrows at me, and I pull the pillow from behind my head and launch it at her as they sprint to the door.
The room’s dark again, quiet, except for the ticking alarm clock and the soft rustle of wind outside the window.
For a split second, I consider how nice a midnight walk sounds.
I tell myself to forget it—to forget him.
But when I close my eyes, I can still feel his hands on me.
Still taste the faint trace of whiskey on his lips.
Still hear that low, teasing whisper. “Sweet dreams, Chuck.”
God help me.