Chapter 32
THIRTY-TWO
DYLAN
MIA: Hey Dylan, thanks for inviting me to the barbeque. This might sound a bit strange, but if Fury ever settles and you think about selling, can you let me know?
DYLAN: Sure. Although I think it’s going to be a while. You know someone who might be interested?
MIA: Maybe. And thanks!
DYLAN: You planning to tell me where we’re going?
IZZY: Just be ready at 7.
DYLAN: I hate to sound like an insecure teen, but… what do I wear?
IZZY: What you normally wear is fine.
DYLAN: OK, but if you’re wearing those tiny cutoffs, just know there’s a very high risk we won’t make it out of my truck.
IZZY: What happened to being a gentleman?
DYLAN: It’s overrated!
The knock on Izzy’s trailer door feels loud in the quiet evening.
I rub the palms of my hands on my jeans, feeling excited and nervous all at once.
The emotion is wrapped in a big fat bow of stupid.
We’ve spent three days working side by side after the night in the barn, stealing moments together—lingering kisses, a touch as we brush past.
I’ve played football in front of tens of thousands of fans, plus millions watching at home.
I’ve led the team to victory just as many times as I’ve fallen on my ass and been crushed in front of those fans.
Pressure is nothing new to me. And yet, none of that matters.
Because standing in front of Izzy’s door, I feel like a damn teen on my first date.
Maybe it’s the knowledge that there’s no job to hide behind tonight. Ranch life gives us cover. It gives us a distraction. A way to circle each other. But this? A date? It’s just us.
Maybe it’s how deep I feel myself falling for this woman—how much she’s tangled into everything I do now. How I catch myself looking for her even when I know she’s not there.
Or maybe it’s knowing that when we come back tonight, the ranch is all ours.
Chase is in the city. Jake and Harper flew to Hawaii yesterday.
I dropped Mama at the airport for her girls’ trip to Florida this morning.
The house is empty—except for Buck, who’s smart enough to stay out of the way when I need him to.
The trailer door swings open and my mind empties.
All I see is Izzy wearing a black top that falls off one shoulder and a denim skirt that somehow makes those tiny cutoffs she wears look respectable.
My eyes snag on those long, tanned legs.
It’s a fight not to lean over, pull her in, run my lips down the elegant line of her neck.
“My eyes are up here, Sullivan.” Her voice is sharp but her lips are pulled into a teasing smile.
Her dark blonde hair is loose and shining in tousled waves around her face and down her back.
Her green eyes are sharpened by dark eyeliner.
Her lips—those perfect lips—are painted a peachy red.
The look is sexy as hell and has my dick twitching in my jeans.
“Damn, Brooks. With you in that outfit, I’m going to be spending the night trying not to sucker punch any guy who looks your way.”
“I can take care of myself,” she says with her trademark eye roll.
“Didn’t say you couldn’t. But it doesn’t mean I’m not going to be looking out for you, too.”
Her smile falters for half a second as my words land.
It’s the slightest crack in her armor, but I catch it.
Izzy has had to stand on her own, face the world head-on while raising the sweetest little human I’ve ever met.
With her parents trying to push her into a box she doesn’t belong in, and her douchebag ex letting Mad down over and over, it’s no wonder she doesn’t trust people to have her back.
And the way I bought the horses and dragged her into my life wasn’t exactly the best start to building trust. But if ranching’s taught me anything these past few weeks, it’s that trust takes time and patience.
You show up, again and again, until the doubts have nothing left to stand on.
Which is why it eats at me that I haven’t told her about the offer from Coach Allen…
I’ve meant to. More than once. But the truth is, every time we’re alone, every moment her eyes lock on mine or she leans just a little closer, all my good intentions get buried under the need to touch her.
I could tell myself I’m waiting until I know more. Until Coach calls again. Until I’ve made a decision. But deep down, I know I’m holding back. Because saying the words out loud might break whatever this is that’s building between us.
“Come on,” she says, stepping from the trailer, passing so close I catch the scent of her perfume—like the ocean on a summer’s day, with something purely Izzy underneath. My pulse kicks up a notch.
“You gonna tell me where we’re going yet?” I ask.
“Nope.”
I hide my smile. “Fine, but I’m driving, blondie.”
“Suit yourself, big guy,” she throws back, using the nickname from the first time we met.
The day my truck hit her compact feels like a different lifetime.
The name—the memory of our exchange and Izzy using it now—makes me tip my head back and laugh.
The last of my nerves disappear. Izzy was wrong the other night when she said this date would complicate things.
Spending time with her is the easiest thing in the world.
We fill the drive talking about ourselves. Izzy tells me more about her family, the pressure she felt to become a doctor. I tell her about being drafted to the Stormhawks and my life before the injury.
“The problem with living the dream is the constant fear that you’re going to mess up and lose it,” I admit.
“Seven years I spent playing tight end. Seven years of looking over my shoulder at newer drafts. Leaving it all on the field, knowing it could get ripped away from me any second.” And then it did.
My chest tightens at the memory, but I keep talking.
“Looking back now, it feels like I barely stopped to draw in breath because I was scared if I stopped, it would end somehow.”
“And now?” Izzy asks, her voice soft, like she knows this isn’t an easy question.
I feel her gaze on me and the weight of what she’s asking. She wants me to tell her again that I’m all in. That I know what I want now. For a split second, I think of the coaching offer again. Then I shove it aside. I haven’t even spoken to Coach Allen about it. I’m not even sure if I want to.
“When I first got injured, I didn’t know who I was without football. I guess I’m still figuring it out,” I admit. “But yeah, I’m breathing a little easier.”
It’s not the all-in commitment Izzy wants, but it’s the truth. And from the thoughtful look on Izzy’s face as I glance her way, it’s enough. For now.
An hour north of Idaho Springs, Izzy points to a field already filling with trucks. Beyond it is a small arena lit by bright floodlights. I shake my head, huffing a laugh as it dawns on me where Izzy has brought me. Not a restaurant or a bar, but the rodeo. Of course she has.
A grin lights up my face. “I can’t believe you thought of this place.
I haven’t been here for twenty years.” A pang of sadness hits my chest. The last time I was here, we were a family of five, with Dad behind the wheel of our old truck, Mama beside him, Chase squeezed in the middle between me and Jake.
“Is this OK?” she asks.
I see the sudden hesitation in her expression and throw her an easy smile. “It’s more than OK.” And it is.
“Nothing beats a local rodeo,” Izzy says as I park and kill the engine.
I turn to look at her, drinking her in—just as fucking beautiful now as when she’s hauling hay bales.
Izzy’s eyes land on mine and suddenly the air between us is elastic pulled tight.
My voice when I speak is a low rumble. “Keep looking at me like that, Brooks, and this date ain’t making it out of my truck.”
The corner of her mouth quirks, and the glint in her eye tells me she might not have a problem with that.
So I grab the door and jump out before I can give in to the need hammering in my chest. A second later, I’m opening her door, holding out my hand for her to take, but she jumps down on her own. Typical.
There’s a muggy heat to the night, the promise of another summer rainstorm brewing. The air smells of grilled meats and cotton candy. The scents wrap around us as we make our way to the arena. “So do you bring all your dates to the rodeo?” I ask as we weave through the crowds.
She exhales a laugh. “If by dates you mean Mad and Flic, then yes. After Hooper, dating was the last thing on my mind for a very long time. And even if it wasn’t, apparently my prickly ‘might kill you with a pitchfork’ personality doesn’t exactly lend itself to dating.
Which is fine by me,” she adds quickly. “Madison, horses, and ranching—that’s all I need. ”
Something about the way she says it makes me think she’s convincing herself as much as she is me. My jaw tightens at the mention of Hooper and the pain he’s caused Mad and Izzy over the years.
“What about you?” she asks, shifting the conversation. “Where do you take your dates?”
“I don’t remember,” I say truthfully. “For a long time, I couldn’t think about anything but my injury. Before that, I was dating a fitness instructor. She was nice, but when I got injured, I couldn’t focus on anything else.”
Izzy shoots me a look. “‘Nice.’ Wow,” she says in a teasing voice. “I can’t imagine why it didn’t work out.”
“Maybe I just prefer pitchfork-wielders over nice.” The back of my hand brushes against hers, sending a bolt of energy through me that makes me want to sweep Izzy over my shoulder and straight back to my truck.
I squash the caveman thought. Right now, I’d settle for slipping my fingers into hers and pulling her close, but something makes me hold back.