Chapter 27
twenty-seven
Sawyer
Shit.
For a second, I forget where I am. Then I shift—and remember exactly where I am.
And who I’m with.
And what we did.
Double shit.
I stay still, eyes open, my heart pounding like it’s trying to rat me out. Trouble’s behind me, still asleep—or pretending to be. His chest rises slow and even against my back, like this is just another morning for him. Like this meant something. But it didn’t. It can’t. Right?
I’ll be back in Chicago soon, miles away from this ranch. There’s no way I can let myself catch real feelings for him. The man can’t even say the word girlfriend. Pull it together, Sawyer.
I inch away from him, careful not to wake him. His hand slips off my hip and lands on the mattress with a quiet thud. My breath catches.
I don’t look back.
I shouldn’t look back.
...I look back.
Triple shit.
He’s lying there, one arm slung over his head, messy, dark hair falling over his forehead, a smudge of a bruise just below his collarbone where I think I might’ve kissed him a little too hard.
And he’s wearing that calm, heartbreakingly handsome look that makes me want to either push him off the bed or crawl back under the covers and let him ruin me again.
Nope. Absolutely not. I am in control here. I sit up. Grab my clothes. Attempt to locate my spine.
He speaks without opening his eyes. “You sneaking out on me, Sunshine?”
Ugh. That voice. Gravel and sin.
I don’t turn around. “I have a thing.”
“A thing,” he repeats, like I’ve just said I’m late for an imaginary tea party. “Sounds important.”
“It is.”
There’s a pause. I hear the bedsheets shift.
“You forgot your shoes,” he says, and I glance down to see them still by the bed. Of course he noticed. He notices everything.
I grab my shoes, toss a quick “thanks” over my shoulder like this was just some casual, no-big-deal kind of night. Like he didn’t just rewire my brain last night.
Trouble watches me from the bed, one arm propping himself up.
He doesn’t stop me. Which is good. Exactly what I wanted. Right?
I reach for the door just as my phone buzzes.
Harrison
I’m not going anywhere. I’ll see you tonight.
I freeze.
Shit. I almost forgot about Harrison. He’s still here.
I stare at the text like it might rewrite itself. Out loud, without meaning to, I mutter, “Tonight?”
Behind me, I hear the creak of bedsheets.
“You coming to watch us ride?” Trouble’s voice—warm and raspy. “Your brother always seems to think he’s got a chance to beat me.”
I turn halfway, nearly trip over my own boot. “Oh crap. That’s right.”
My brain’s suddenly juggling too many things—my ex, my brother, Trouble, shirtless in bed with that face—that too pretty for his own good face. And just like that, I am dangerously close to short-circuiting and crawling back into bed with him.
I force a smile that probably looks more like a grimace. “Can’t wait. Gotta go.”
Trouble just smirks like he’s the damn poster boy for bad ideas and zero regrets. I yank open the door, then pause—because of course I do.
His voice follows me out, “Wear something cute.”
The door slams behind me before I can even think of a comeback.
Wear something cute? When do I not?
After several hours of being paranoid and keeping an eye out for Harrison through my blinds, I do what any girl does in these situations. Force her daddy to go out into the wild with her.
The smell hits me before we even find our seats—dust, leather, sweat, and whatever unholy thing they serve in those plastic concession trays.
My dad walks beside me, arms crossed like he’s being dragged to his own execution. He’s wearing jeans, a baseball t-shirt probably as old as I am, and the expression of a man who’d rather be doing literally anything else.
“Thanks for coming with me,” I say, mostly to break the silence.
“I didn’t have anywhere better to be,” he says with a grunt.
I snort. “You could’ve said no if you didn’t want to be here.”
He shrugs. “I like watching your brother get flung off large animals. Reminds him he’s not as invincible as he thinks.”
We settle into two empty seats behind the chute after grabbing our drinks.
We’re close enough to see the riders prepping.
My eyes scan the crowd, nerves a-flutter.
I just know Harrison is here somewhere. Or maybe by “tonight” he didn’t mean this.
Maybe he realized it would be best if he went back to the city—
“There she is.”
I whip my head around, and it’s him—Harrison, out here in this heat, wearing a tailored button-up. I knew my Harrison radar was going off. My dad stands to shake his hand, but isn’t happy about it.
“Here I am.”
“Great to finally meet you, sir,” Harrison shakes Daddy’s hand.
My dad nods once, then deadpans, “Wish I could say the same.”
Harrison chuckles awkwardly, and I die a little inside. To Daddy, Harrison is the man who kept me away all these years. He’s a sign of the life I have that he doesn't agree with.
Daddy sits back down, muttering under his breath, “Shoulda stayed home. Coulda watched that paint dry on the porch.”
I sip my drink just to avoid speaking.
Harrison doesn’t sit, just sort of loiters next to me like he’s waiting for an invitation that isn’t coming. The point I was trying to make last night obviously went right over his head.
And then—like some kind of cosmic cherry on top—I glance across the arena.
Trouble’s standing with the other riders, hand on the railing, hat pushed low. His eyes lock on Harrison. Correction: His glare locks on Harrison. And it is deadly.
I shift in my seat, trying not to look as flustered as I feel. Because Harrison’s here. Trouble’s here. My daddy’s here. Let’s not even get started on my brother. And I’m starting to think maybe I’m the rodeo clown in this arena.
Harrison finally sits next to me, a little too close. The second his ass hits the seat, Daddy shifts in the other direction.
“Knox is up next,” I say, nudging Daddy with my elbow, as if he doesn’t already know.
He grunts, but doesn’t look away from the chute. “’Bout time,” he says. “It’s about my bed time.”
Harrison laughs. “I finally get to see your brother ride.”
I keep my eyes glued to the gate, letting out a sarcastic, “Yeah, enjoy the show.”
He leans in, low, so Daddy can’t hear. “I know what you’re doing, Sawyer.”
“What’s that?” I don’t give him the satisfaction of turning.
He lowers his voice another notch. “Last night. With the cowboy. I know you were just trying to make me jealous.”
My hands are in my lap. I ball them tight. “Think again.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” he says. “I came here for you.”
The gate clangs. For a split second all I see is hooves and dust and the tip of a cowboy hat. Knox’s bull is wild, angry. The crowd claps when Knox’s arm whips back, his body snapping with the force of the first buck. Seven seconds in, he’s still there, still fighting.
Harrison reaches for my hand, like we’re in a movie, like this is the emotional scene that forces a moment of closeness.
I snap my hand away.
“Jesus,” he says. “Are you going to be this way all week?”
“Harrison, we’re not together.” The words come out sharp, but not loud enough for Daddy to hear. Old habit, always protecting him.
“You don’t mean that,” Harrison says, lips pressed together.
“I do.” My voice is ice. “You should go back to Lexi. She’s missing you.”
That gets his attention. He pulls back, searches my face. “Lexi?” Like he doesn’t remember. Like last night never happened.
Knox lasts 9.2 seconds before the bull slams him into the rail. He flies in a perfect arc, landing in the dirt hard enough to make everyone in the stands wince.
Daddy jumps to his feet and cusses under his breath. I stand up too, worried, but really I've been waiting for any excuse to put space between Harrison and me.
“I’m gonna get a closer look,” I tell Daddy, and he waves me off, already screaming at the judges that the time was rigged.
I don’t look at Harrison when I walk past, but I can feel him staring at my back. He’s not used to being ignored. And I’m not used to feeling seen. Especially by him.
I make a beeline for the rail, skirting past the little kids and their painted faces. I’m three steps down from the bleachers when I hear him.
“Seriously, Sawyer,” Harrison calls. “Why are you running away from me?”
I keep walking. Harrison keeps pace, matching every stride.
“I drove to this shithole to see you. You could at least talk to me.”
“Why are you here?” I say, not turning around.
He fakes a laugh. “Because the office needs you back. I need you back, and—”
I stop. The shock of it is enough to throw him off his rhythm. I spin and face him, arms crossed. “Cut the shit, Harrison. I saw your phone last night.”
He blinks, recalibrates. “My phone?”
“Lexi.” I draw it out, make him feel the word. “I know it’s not over between you two.”
He smiles like it’s a joke, but his eyes are hard. “Sawyer, come on. She’s just an assistant. It’s nothing.”
“You’re a terrible liar,” I say. “Always have been.”
He closes the gap, grabs my arm. Not rough, but insistent. “You’re not done. You can’t be.”
I look at his hand, then at him. “Let go of me.”
He tightens his grip. “What about everything we’ve built? You’re just going to throw it away for what—”
I jerk my arm, but he’s got both hands now, trying to draw me closer. I feel my pulse in my teeth. There are people everywhere—laughing, drinking, moving around us—but nobody sees. Nobody cares. Or maybe they see and just don’t want to get involved. That might be worse.
Panic blooms in my chest, sharp and suffocating.
I twist my body, trying to break free, but his grip only hardens.
“I said let go,” I demand, hating how small my voice sounds.
He leans in. “You're making a scene.”
I want to scream. God, I want to. To yell for someone—anyone—to help me. But the words die in my throat. My heart’s thudding so loud it drowns everything else out.
I twist my arm again, panic rising like a fire in my chest.
Then a shadow falls across us. There’s a presence, heavy. Intimidating.
And it’s not until I see the boots planted firm in the dirt that I realize he’s here.
Trouble.
Out of the pen, broad shoulders squared, jaw tight, eyes locked on Harrison like he’s already decided how this ends. He’s still got one hand on the rail he just jumped over, his chest rising with a steady, lethal calm like whatever came before this moment didn’t wear him down, it just wound him up.
I don’t have to scream. I don’t have to beg. Because Trouble doesn’t need me to ask him to protect me.
“Is there a problem?” Trouble says, but it’s not a question.
Harrison drops my arm. He tries to square up, but Trouble towers over him. “We’re fine,” he says, stepping back.
Trouble looks at me. “You good?”
I nod, because pride is all I have.
A second pair of boots thuds behind me as Knox vaults over in a rush. “Sawyer?” he asks, eyes bouncing from me to Harrison. “What’s going on?”
“Harold here thought it was okay to put hands on your sister.”
Knox’s face shifts—concern turning to barely contained fury.
Trouble cuts him a look, calm but direct. “She said let go. He didn’t. That’s all I needed to see.”
Knox takes a step forward, fists clenched, but Trouble lifts a hand. “I’m handling it.”
Knox stares at him a long beat before nodding once. “Go back to Daddy, Sawyer,” he mutters, closing in on Harrison with Trouble.
Trouble turns to Harrison, grabs him by the shoulder with just enough pressure to make him flinch. “Walk,” he says, leading him away with that deadly calm of his.
And for the first time in forever, I don’t feel like I have to stand my ground alone.