Chapter 9 #2
Behind me, I hear the soft thunk of his bag hitting the floor, followed by the familiar slide of fingers through his hair, then the low rustle of felt as he settles his hat on his head. That hat. The same damn one he put on my head back at Liam’s. He better not get any ideas about doing that today!
My cheeks heat, so I keep my head down, pretending I can’t feel the weight of his eyes on me.
“Good luck getting in,” I say, forcing a casual tone. “I heard they sold out.”
Will’s lips curve, slow and smug. “Good thing I know people.”
Of course he does. He always does.
He drives up to the venue where the event is being held.
The parking lot is already buzzing when we get out.
Trucks with racks of saddles and sponsor decals line the gravel lot.
Cowboys in sweat-darkened hats lean against trailers, laughing, stretching, tapping out nervous rhythms on their thighs with calloused fingers.
Somewhere, a speaker crackles with announcements and a woman’s voice saying “fifteen minutes to chute one.”
It smells like dirt, leather, and anticipation. I inhale it like oxygen. This is why I came.
I flash my media badge to the security guard at the gate and stride past like I belong, which I do. The sun’s lower now, casting long shadows across the dry ground as the arena buzzes with energy and dust.
But when I glance over my shoulder, any hope of shaking Will evaporates.
Not only is he being handed a pass like he owns the place, but people are flocking to him. Grinning, slapping his back, shaking his hand like he’s some kind of damn rodeo royalty. He soaks it in, of course. And then his gaze locks with mine.
And he smirks.
I whip back around and keep walking, my boots crunching against the dirt. With any luck, I’ll disappear into the crowd before he decides to charm his way into my orbit again.
My notepad is tucked tight under my arm, voice recorder clipped to my belt, brain already switching gears. I’ve got interviews to snag, quotes to chase, and a story to tell that doesn’t include Will and his perfect damn smirk.
The moment I step into the stands, I can feel it. The electric charge in the air. The kind of buzz that lives only in places where pain and glory collide.
Bronc riders warm up near the chutes, adjusting their rigging, stretching out their legs. Some are stone-faced. Others are talking shit and grinning like they’ve already won. Everyone’s got tape on something. Wrists, knees, fingers, pride.
I find the Cowboy Channel rep near the check-in tent, a woman named Dakota who recognizes me immediately.
“Phern Stone,” she says with a smile. “Heard you were coming.”
“Happy to be here,” I say, and I mean it.
She hands me a list of rider bios, set times, and interview slots. “You’ve got a good lineup. Couple big names, a few rookies. You’ll like ’em.”
“Perfect.”
By the time the first rider nods for the gate and the bronc explodes out into the arena, I’ve already filled two pages of notes. Every eight-second ride feels like a story waiting to be told. Every crash, every fist pump, every cowboy’s quiet walk back behind the chutes—it all matters.
And the best part, I don’t see Will once. Okay, that’s a lie. I see him at least three times, but he doesn’t try to come over and talk.
Hours later when the dust has settled and the crowd’s long gone and the sky’s bleeding orange across the horizon do I finally sit still.
I’m perched on the tailgate of a trailer, boots dusty, sweat drying on the back of my neck.
A half-empty bottle of water dangles from my fingers, and for the first time in weeks, pride is blooming in my chest instead of pressure.
I’m looking at my notes when a shadow cuts across my lap. I blink up, shielding my eyes from the sinking sun.
And stop breathing.
“Evening, ma’am,” the man says, voice low and easy as a country song. “I’m told I have an interview with you.”
Oh my God. I knew I had an interview lined up with Nash Kimzey—the Nash Kimzey.
But no one told me he looked like this in person.
Up close, he’s tall and broad-shouldered with sun-warmed skin, a hat worn low over sharp blue eyes, and that kind of roguish smile that says he knows exactly how dangerous he is.
My brain blanks for a beat too long.
I scramble to set my phone down, thumb brushing Will’s message off-screen.
“Right. Yes. You do.” I clear my throat and smile, heat rising to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the Texas sun. “Phern Stone. I’ll be your journalist this evening.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well then, Phern Stone, hit me with your best questions.”
And just like that, I remember who I am. I’m not the girl waiting by the window. I’m the one who asks the questions. Who tells the stories, chases the moments, and lives her own damn life. I flip the page in my notebook. Smile. And begin.
Nash is charming in that effortless, steady-handed way.
No push, no ego, just this grounded calm that makes it easy to breathe around him.
He answers every question like he’s thought about it first, but never once makes me feel like he’s putting on a show.
And damn it, he’s funny. He makes me laugh. Real laughs, too.
When we wrap up, I snap my notebook shut and say, “Thank you so much for doing this.”
He shakes his head, rubbing the back of his neck, that easy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“No need to thank me. I think what you’re doing is real important. Print’s a dying artform.” Then—casually, like he’s asking about the weather—“Would you like to get dinner with me? There’s a great steakhouse in the Stockyards.”
My heart skips.
I smile, trying not to show how much that simple question just shook me. “I’d love to. But I should change first.”
“Where you staying?”
I rattle off the name of the boutique hotel. He nods, thumbs hooking into the belt loops of his jeans.
“See you at seven, then.”
And just like that, he’s gone. Back into the dust and golden light like some cowboy fever dream, leaving me standing beside a trailer with my jaw on the floor and butterflies rioting in my stomach.
As soon as I’m alone, I let out a silent scream, fists curled at my sides like I’m trying to contain a lightning bolt.
Wait.
This is a date, right? Like, I’m not imagining the intention? The smile? The offer to pick me up?
I grab my phone and fire off a text like my life depends on it.
Tish Garcia
I NEED HELP. SOS!!
She replies in under three seconds.
What’s going on? Call me!
I don’t hesitate. I hit call.
“Hello?” she says, voice already crackling with energy.
“I just finished interviewing Nash Kimzey,” I blurt. “He was so sweet and smart and he made me laugh and then he asked me to dinner. He’s picking me up at seven and I said yes but—Tish. It’s a date, right? I’m not imagining this?”
There’s a pause. Then her voice goes a little shrill. “Oh my god. I just looked him up. He’s like a walking sex dream!”
“I know! But is it a date?”
“It’s definitely a date. And if you don’t wear something that says ride me, cowboy, I will personally fly to Texas and style you myself.”
I laugh, loud and full and real.
“Babe, get off here and get ready,” Tish says, practically vibrating through the phone. “Send me pics when you’re done!”
I’m still grinning like an idiot as I hang up, phone clutched in my hand.
And that’s exactly when I plow straight into a wall of muscle and cologne. Will steadies me automatically, his hands brushing my arms before I pull back.
“Guessing you had a good day?” he asks, the corner of his mouth lifting.
Heat prickles across my skin for a very different reason now. “It was great. I need to head back to the hotel.”
His brow lifts, eyes narrowing just slightly like he’s waiting for the rest of the story.
I don’t give it to him. I just turn and walk away, pulse still racing from Tish’s words or from the way Will’s eyes lingered a little too long. I’m not sure.
At the hotel, I toss my phone onto the bathroom counter, cue up my favorite getting-ready playlist, and step into the shower.
I take my time, letting the hot water work some of the tension out of my shoulders.
Shaving every inch like I’m prepping for battle.
Or maybe for a kiss I won’t regret this time.
Afterward, I towel off and plug in my straightener, watching steam rise as I run it through my dark waves, smoothing them into sleek, glossy perfection. My make-up is soft but flirty. A smoky eye, just enough shimmer, and a lip color that walks the line between innocent and absolutely not.
And then I slip into the little black dress I packed last-minute, more out of stubborn hope than real expectation. It hugs in all the right places. My reflection stares back at me, wide-eyed and flushed. I grab my black fringe boots and step into them like armor.
Then I pick up my phone. Flip the camera. Snap the pics.
Tish Garcia
How do I look?
Like you’re about to ruin a man’s life. In the best way possible.
I step out of the bathroom, still adjusting one of my earrings, and come to a dead stop.
Will’s there, sprawled out on one side of the bed like it’s his. Phone in hand, boots kicked off, utterly at home. I’d forgotten, for one stupid second, that we’re sharing this room.
He doesn’t look up right away, but when he does, everything in him goes still. His gaze drags over me, slow and unfiltered. His phone lowers. His lips part.
“You look good, Phern. Real good.” He shifts, sitting up. “We got plans I don’t know about?”
My pulse thunders, but I keep my expression neutral. “No.”
“Then why are you dressed up like that?”
“Like what?”
His eyes darken, his voice dipping low. “Like a walking wet dream.”
The air thickens between us. His words hang there, undeniable, heavy, and charged. Heat blooms low in my stomach, and for a second, I almost forget the comeback sitting on the tip of my tongue.
“I’m going out,” I say finally. “With Nash Kimzey.”