Chapter 1 Tyler
“Tyler, you’ll be manning the mechanical bull this year.”
I tip my hat at Miss Bellows as she reads off the volunteer duties for the annual Fall Fest in Grand Lake.
My father’s brewery, Slade Brewing, donates the beer tent every year for the fest, and most of us Slades spend at least a few hours volunteering. I usually drive the tractor for the hayrides, but my cousin Axle took that over this year.
“You ready to spend the day surrounded by screaming children, big brother?” Trent nudges my arm with his elbow. “Maybe it’ll finally light a fire in those Levi’s of yours and you’ll give mom and dad their first grandkid.”
He doesn’t look up from the phone he’s furiously typing on.
I chuckle and shake my head. “And why is that left to me? You’re the one with the fancy job and six-bedroom house.”
“Could’ve been your job, remember? Still can.” He smirks, his hand clapping around my shoulder before he spots our dad, Drake, and makes his way over to him to most likely talk shop.
Trent’s not wrong. His title as the CEO of Slade Brewing International could have been mine, and according to my parents, should have been mine. But the idea of being glued to my phone all day while jet-setting from one meeting to another makes my skin crawl.
As the oldest son and heir to the Slade Brewing empire, I get that I probably let a lot of people down when I took over the family ranch instead, but I don’t regret it.
Over the last 20 years, the ranch has expanded to 30,000+ acres, nine cowboys, three ranch hands and hundreds of heads of cattle.
Someone had to take it over, and it was the one place I always felt I could make a difference.
Financial reports and projected earnings always instantly bored me.
I’m still on the board of the company and always will be, so it’s not that I don’t care about it or don’t want it to continue to be one of the most successful breweries in the world—I just don’t want the title or responsibility of CEO.
Besides, Trent came out of the womb ready to take that bull by the horns.
I grab a cup of coffee from the refreshments table supplied by Violet from the Bean they never do.
Sure enough, about three seconds in, he’s on his back on the cushions surrounding the bull.
“That’s not fair!” He slams his fist down before standing up and walking back to me to return the glove. “That’s so unrealistic.”
“Unrealistic? You ever ridden a real bull, son? A real one would break your back and gore you faster than you can blink. Bessie here is a cakewalk.”
The kid looks at me with horror before bolting over to his group of friends.
“Gee, you really have a way with kids. You’re a natural.”
I turn to my right to see where the breathy voice is coming from when my eyes land on a pair of brand-new shiny cowboy boots on bare, shapely legs.
“Best they know the truth. You can get seriously hurt or killed out here if you don’t respect the land and the animals.
” I shake out the glove and stare across the field.
“Had to deal with it firsthand with these damn transplants and tourists,” I mutter slightly under my breath but loud enough that she hears.
“Even the fake mechanical ones?” She’s being sarcastic and I won’t lie, it’s fucking sexy. I like a little attitude in a woman. Makes it challenging.
I turn my attention back to the bull, trying my damndest not to notice the way her plump ass fills out her tight denim shorts. Her lips are a shiny red, matching the print of her flannel shirt and her fingernails.
“So what do I get if I win?”
I turn back to face her, an eyebrow instinctively rising as I give her an obvious once-over. “You’re going to ride the bull?”
“Yeah,” she shrugs, “why the hell not?”
She takes off her fake cowboy hat and situates it between her thighs as she pulls her long blonde hair up into a high ponytail, her curls bouncing at the end.
“Just don’t seem the type.”
She crosses her arms over her chest, pushing her full tits together right in my line of vision. She juts out one hip, cocking her head to the side.
“Oh yeah? And what type do I seem like?”
I can’t help but chuckle as my eyes drop back down to her boots. I make no effort to hide my gaze as it slowly travels up her curvy body, pausing briefly on her full hips.
I wonder what it would be like to grip those hips as she rides me.
“Like a little tourist who’s wearing a costume of what she thinks Colorado people dress like.”
“You seem to like it.” A coy smile spreads across her lips as she reaches for the glove in my hand.
“You’re just missing a cow-print vest and a six-shooter, little miss tourist.” I smile and she looks at me questioningly. “Then you’d complete your look of Woody from Toy Story.” She rolls her eyes as I let out a hearty laugh.
“Give me that!” She snatches the glove from my hand and tugs it onto her manicured fingers. “I’ve gotten several compliments on my outfit today, so you can suck it.”
“Oh, I don’t doubt that, sweetheart. I bet everyone was really impressed with your cowboy hat and belt buckle.”
“Stop flirting with me and go over the rules so I can ride this damn bull.”
Flirting? She thinks I’m flirting with her? Wait . . . am I flirting with her?
“Make sure that glove is on your dominant hand; you’ll grip the strap with that.
Your other hand has to be in the air and can’t be touching the saddle or any part of the bull.
You can squeeze the bull with your thighs, and here’s a tip: Try to move your body with it, otherwise you’ll just get thrown off and it’ll hurt like hell.
I’ll flip the switch and you try to stay on, simple as that. ”
“So, you never answered me. What do I get if I can last the entire time?”
“Same as everyone else,” I say, “bragging rights.”
She tilts her head. “That’s not going to work. We need something that will motivate me.”
I hesitate because I know I shouldn’t be flirting with the guests, let alone someone who looks at least a decade younger than me. But I ask anyway . . .
“What do you want?”
She taps her chin and squints one eye like she’s deep in thought. “A date.”
“Done,” I say, and she instantly lights up. “I’ve got half a dozen cousins who would kill to go on a date with you.”
She gives me a look that tells me I can jump up my own ass, and I laugh.
“With you.”
“Now, why would a pretty young woman like yourself want to go on a date with an old man like me? I could be a serial killer.”
“I guess it would make for an interesting date then.”
She’s quick.
Feisty.
The type that if I had to bet, always gets what she wants.
“Fine. If you can last the entire time, I’ll go on a date with you.”
“And it’s eight seconds?” she asks.
I nod. “That’s the goal. Most people can’t last more than three.”
“Good thing I’m not most people,” she says in that breathy tone again as she steps forward, pausing an inch away from me. “I’ve ridden things much longer than eight seconds.” She drags her teeth across her bottom lip and—fuck me—it sends a lightning bolt to my cock.
“We’ll see about that.” I turn, hoping my hardening dick isn’t visible in my jeans. I watch out of the corner of my eye as she tosses a long leg over the saddle and pulls herself up onto the bull.
Goddamn, I’d love to see her do that stark-ass naked.
“You ready?” I ask, trying to get my mind out from between her thighs.