Chapter 4
The rest of the week flies by as I juggle settling into my new life while still managing pieces of my old one.
By Saturday, I’m actually excited to head back out to Liam’s.
Watching the green bull riders practice has always been fun, but this time I’ve got a purpose.
I get to interview them. And suddenly, it all feels a little more real.
It’s warm out, so I slip into a pair of denim shorts, my scuffed tan boots, and a faded T-shirt printed with a cowgirl yelling giddy up, sluts. Appropriate, considering the energy I’m channeling.
After grabbing my bag, phone, and keys, I head out.
There are at least a dozen trucks parked in front of the barn but the one I spot first is his.
Will’s leaning against the fence beside Liam, talking casually, and, damn, he looks good. Tight jeans. Dusty boots. A black T-shirt stretched just right across his chest. And that damn tan cowboy hat. The only thing missing is the cigar.
“Hey,” I greet them, keeping it casual even as my pulse picks up.
Liam turns toward me. “Ready to get to work?”
“Yeah.” I glance around. “Think any of them will be willing to talk to me?”
“Chat?” Will echoes, one brow raised.
“Phern’s starting some kind of blog,” Liam cuts in, “and wants to interview the greenhorns.”
I snort. “It’s not a blog. I’m writing articles. Real ones. With actual structure.”
Liam just grins and points across the lot. “You went to school with Trey, right?”
I follow his gesture and spot a familiar face.
“I did,” I say, already walking. “Perfect. Thanks.”
Trey’s face lights up when he sees me. “Phern Stone. Look at you. How the hell have you been?”
“Good. You?”
“Better now that I’m back in a place where people have common sense.” He gestures to the arena. “Even if that includes voluntarily getting thrown off bulls.”
I grin. “So you’re giving it a real shot?”
“I am. It’s in my blood. I’ve fought it long enough.”
“Same here,” I say. “That’s why I came over. I’m writing a piece on the festival and want to interview a few riders. You good with that?”
“Sure thing.”
I pull out my notepad and start running through my questions. Trey answers easily, comfortably, and behind us, I hear the commotion of the first rider entering the arena.
Trey chuckles. “Damn. Ol’ Kevin didn’t last long.”
“Not surprised. He spends more time at Will’s bar than on a bull.”
We share a laugh.
By the time the third rider is bucked, I’m finished with all my questions.
Trey’s eyes go wide as he looks over my shoulder. Before I can turn around, something soft and worn is gently pressed down over my head.
“Hold this for me, sugar,” Will says, voice low and rough as leather. “I need to show these boys how it’s done.”
My brain stutters.
His hat. On my head. In public. And he called me sugar. Not kiddo.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, crawling up the back of my neck.
“Sure,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
But he’s already walking away, heading toward the pen with that easy, powerful stride that draws eyes whether he wants it to or not.
Trey whistles low beside me. “Damn. Didn’t know you two were a thing.”
I blink. “We’re not. He’s just Sam’s best friend.”
Trey gives me a look that says sure, Jan.
Needing a distraction, I say, “Come on. Let’s grab a good spot to watch.”
But Will’s hat is still sitting heavy on my head, and I feel like I’m getting a ton of looks.
Will climbs the fence like he’s done it a hundred times—which he has—and swings one leg over with the kind of ease that makes it real hard to pretend I’m not watching. Harder still to pretend I’m not wearing his hat.
The other riders take notice when he steps into the arena. A couple nod, others grin nervously. Because Will Flowers might not be active on the circuit anymore, but his name still holds weight out here.
He goes to the chute where one of Bullet’s offsprings is raring to go. He adjusts the grip on the rope, settles in like it’s muscle memory and maybe it is.
Then the gate swings open.
The bull explodes forward, all raw power and chaos, and Will moves with it like they’re fused together. Like every twist, every buck is something his body already knows. He’s all grit and instinct—lean muscle and absolute control. It’s not just riding. It’s poetry.
Around me, people are shouting, cheering, but I barely register the noise. My eyes are locked on him. God, he looks so good.
So good that I feel a hard throb right between my legs.
Eight seconds flash by in a blur.
When the buzzer sounds and he finally dismounts, the crowd lets out a wave of whoops and claps, and someone smacks the metal rail beside me making me jump a little.
Will jogs toward the fence, brushing dust from his jeans, that damn T-shirt clinging to his chest now damp with sweat. His eyes scan the crowd until they find mine.
The second our gazes lock, the air in my lungs turns heavy. He doesn’t look away. Not right away. Not like before. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—heat, maybe. Challenge. Like he knows exactly what he just did to me and isn’t even sorry about it. And then he reaches me.
His hand comes up, easy and unhurried, and he plucks the hat off my head.
His fingers brush my temple. Slow. Deliberate.
“Thanks, sugar,” he murmurs.
And then he walks away. Just like that. Like he didn’t just set fire to my bloodstream. Like I’m not standing there, rooted to the spot, completely destroyed by a look.
But then he stops. Not for me.
No, Will walks right up to Missy-freaking-Jones.
She’s leaning against the fence like she’s posing for a calendar, all painted-on jeans and pouty lips. Missy’s been chasing after Sam for years until he went and got himself married. Now, apparently, she’s set her sights on his best friend.
She reaches up, fingers brushing the brim of his hat, and says something that makes him laugh.
My stomach twists.
I can’t hear the words, but I don’t need to. I know Missy’s game. Seen it a hundred times. The fake sweetness. The overly familiar touch. The way she leans in like she’s the only woman who’s ever existed. But Will doesn’t pull away.
And when Missy glances past him to me, she smirks. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing. Like she’s won.
Heat creeps up my neck. Not the good kind from earlier. This is sharp and cold and burning all at once.
I swallow hard, force my expression into something neutral, and turn back to Trey.
“Interview’s over,” I say, my voice flat. “I’ll let you know when the article’s ready.”
Trey nods, adjusting his gloves. “Sure. I’m up next anyway.” He pauses. “Want to hold my hat?”
I let out a laugh, but it sounds brittle even to my own ears. “Sure. Why not.”
He places it on my head with exaggerated care, like he’s trying to lighten the mood. It doesn’t feel the same. And it kind of smells. But at least I don’t feel like a complete idiot anymore.
I watch his run half-heartedly. He holds on for five seconds before getting tossed into the dirt. It’s rough, but he’s grinning as he jogs back over, brushing dust from his jeans.
“Damn,” he says, panting. “Should’ve leaned left.”
I smirk. “Maybe you should be in the gym working on your core next to Kevin.”
He clutches his chest like I shot him. “You’ve wounded me, Phern Stone.”
I’m laughing for real this time, just starting to shake it off, when I glance over my shoulder. Will’s still standing with Missy. But he’s not listening to her. His eyes are on me. Locked in, intense, unreadable. And for one second, it’s like the air goes still.
Before I can decide what to do with that or if it even means anything, Trey shifts, stepping just slightly to block Will from my view. Whether he meant to or not, I’m grateful.
“So,” Trey says, voice softer now. “Would you want to grab a drink sometime? You know. To catch up.”
I blink, caught off guard. But then I smile.
“Yeah,” I say. “That would be nice.”
We exchange numbers, his fingers brushing mine just briefly as I hand back his hat. He tips it at me with an easy grin, and for a second, it feels simple. Easy. But as I walk toward the barn, that feeling fades with every step.
I find Liam inside, leaning against a stall, eyes glued to his phone. There’s something soft about his expression, like he’s seeing something he’s missed for a while.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
He looks up, tucking his phone into his back pocket.
“Just texting with Olive.” He eyes me for a second too long. “Saw Trey giving you his number.”
I groan. “Don’t even start with me.”
“Not saying anything, cousin.” He holds up his hands, palms out. “Just be careful.”
I flinch but it’s enough. Because that phrase—those three words—have followed me around like a shadow ever since my college boyfriend.
The one I thought I’d marry. The one who taught me how easy it was to confuse charm for love.
The one who broke my heart and left me holding the pieces like I should’ve seen it coming.
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “I know.”
Liam watches me for another beat, but he doesn’t push. He just nods.
I leave the barn before Liam can say anything else.
I need air.
Space.
Silence.
I don’t go far. Just around the side of the barn where the old feed barrels are stacked like forgotten promises. The sun’s starting to lower, casting long golden shadows over the field, and the breeze carries the faint scent of dust and sweat and hay.
I lean against the fence, trying to exhale the weight that’s pressing down on me.
Be careful.
God, I hate those words. I hate how they follow me like I’m still the girl who trusted too fast. Who loved too hard. Who didn’t see it coming until it was too late.
I blink up at the sky, swallowing past the lump in my throat.
Footsteps crunch behind me.
I don’t turn.
“Didn’t peg you for a hider,” Will says quietly.
His voice is like sandpaper and honey. Rough and warm and far too familiar.
I sigh. “Not hiding. Just regrouping.”