Home Stay (Kings of Cocky #4)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

CASSIE

“I still can’t believe you’re going to a concert solo,” Avery says in my AirPods as I stand in my hotel room for the night. “I would never. I’d sooner die alone in my bathtub, covered in Cheez-It crumbs.”

I smooth the hem of my shorts, trying to decide if they say confident country cutie or emotional crisis in boots.

“It’s not like I have a choice,” I mutter, grabbing the flannel off the bed.

“I’ve always wanted to see the Dust Devils live.

So I’m doing it. Alone. Like a strong, evolved woman.

Who does not have a crippling fear of attending concerts solo. ”

“Girl.” Avery’s voice is deadpan. “You’re wearing daisy dukes and a push-up bra. That’s not evolved. That’s bait.”

I grin and snap her a photo anyway—short shorts, low-cut white tank, worn-in boots, cherry-red lipstick, and a flannel tied around my waist in case the Iowa breeze turns wicked tonight. My cherry-brown hair falls in soft waves past my shoulders, and I’ve got just enough eyeliner to fake confidence.

“I mean, if I’m going to go alone, I may as well do this all the way,” I say, admiring myself in the hotel mirror. “This is also the year I stop half-assing everything. I’m whole-assing this.”

“You look hot,” Avery groans. “You also look like the plot of a country song waiting to happen. Please don’t end up in a truck bed with a stranger named Duke.”

“No promises.”

“You do realize you might meet someone at this thing, right?”

I scoff. “I’ll throw up in my mouth. I can’t stand men. I’m literally over them.”

“It’s been over three months since the breakup.”

“Exactly. And I made a vow. No relationships for a year. That’s what my therapist said, and for once, I agree. I’m in my self-healing era. I’ve deleted the dating apps. I saged my place. No thank you.”

“Okay, but…what about, like…a one-night stand?”

I blink at my reflection. “Avery. That’s not something I do. You know that’s not my style. Never have, never will.”

“You could use a reset lay. Just press the button and poof—your ex is out of your system.”

“Is that…how that works?”

“It’s science,” she says. “I read it in a book.”

“A book? Or on social media?”

“That’s not important.”

“Not my cup of tea,” I laugh, tightening my bootstraps. “Do you know how many orgasms I had to fake with Evan? It was like performing in a damn school play. ‘Oh wow, yes, that’s the spot—nope, that’s my kidney, but sure, keep going.’”

She laughs so loud I have to take one AirPod out for a second.

“I’m serious,” I say, grabbing my bag and heading for the elevator. “A one-night stand? That’s amateur hour. What if he’s bad in bed? Or worse—what if he cries after? Stalks me? Or—what if I misjudged how good he was in bed and regret it?”

Avery cackles again as I slip into the back of a dusty Lyft outside the Holiday Inn. “You are such a Capricorn moon.”

“I feel like this is my Sagittarius rising coming out, though.”

“Whatever you are, go live a little. Buy a beer. Make out with a stranger. Touch a bicep or two. Live a little.”

“No promises,” I repeat.

The venue is exactly what I pictured when I booked the (ridiculously-expensive) ticket: a giant, fenced-in field with makeshift-beer tents, a local BBQ truck, and a stage so dusty it looks like it was assembled by the wind.

The sun’s still out, golden and warm, but I can already see couples staking out space with lawn chairs and blankets.

God, I should’ve brought a chair. Or a date.

Or some self-respect enough to not show up to this thing alone.

I grab a hot dog and a beer and start walking the grounds, trying to look chill and mysterious and not like I’ve never done this alone before.

That’s when I feel a stare on me.

I glance over my shoulder and catch a guy watching me.

Not just a guy. A cowboy. Or at least cowboy-adjacent.

Tall. Broad. Worn denim jeans that hang just right.

A white T-shirt stretched across a chest built by bad decisions, with a pearl-snap flannel tied low around his waist. There’s a trucker hat shadowing his face, and boots dusted like he just stepped off a damn horse.

Scruff on his jaw, a toothpick between his lips, beer in his hand.

His biceps should be illegal. His jawline should be studied. And his eyes? Blue as the sky on one of those days you wait for all winter.

We make eye contact. He smiles, and I smile back.

He does this thing with his eyes.

“Hey,” I say as I pass, trying to sound braver than I feel. “Can you not stare at me like that? I’m not into guys right now. Taking a break. Not accepting applications.”

“Oh, is that so?” he fires back. Damn. Sexy-as-hell voice? Check.

“Yeah. Please keep your eyes to yourself.”

He looks away and holds out a napkin.

“I just thought you should know you’ve got ketchup on your face,” he drawls—drawls, like we’re in a spaghetti western and I’m the fool with mustard on my blouse. And to make matters worse, he taps a spot on his stubble right below his lips on his chin, and hands me the napkin.

I freeze, mortified.

Then I dab my chin with my finger.

A little bit of that red bleeds.

So I use the napkin he just handed me to wipe, then die.

He turns and walks away before I can think of a single comeback. Just a casual shrug, a knowing smirk, and those damn jeans striding off into the sunset.

And that’s when it hits me.

This low, thrumming ache curling in my stomach like I’ve swallowed a spark. My skin goes prickly. My breath forgets how to be normal. My thighs—traitors—tense like they’ve just remembered what desire feels like.

What is this?

It’s not a crush. It’s not a fantasy. It’s not even hope.

It’s raw. Chemical. Like my body recognized something before my brain could catch up.

And I hate it.

Because I’ve spent the last three months building walls, closing doors, and taping a “No Trespassing” sign over my damn heart.

But one smirking cowboy in faded denim just kicked the whole damn thing in—without saying a word.

No, I tell myself, silencing the stirrings in my head. Cassie, hold your horses.

So what if a tall, maddeningly handsome cowboy happened to cross into my orbit?

It’s meaningless. Flirtatious glances happen all the time. This is just something I’ll need to get used to now that I’m single.

Single.

I exhale slowly as I make my way toward the stage, where the Dust Devils are set to start in about an hour and a half.

I’m still getting used to that word. This isn’t exactly how I imagined spending my thirtieth birthday—alone in some unfamiliar Mississippi River town in corn country, clutching a beer and a hot dog like they’re life rafts.

I’m getting used to being alone, because I’m worried now that this might be my forever fate, so I may as well just manage it.

I thought I’d be settled by now. Kids. A house. A man who kept his promises. Who I didn’t have to fake orgasms with.

Thanks a lot, Evan.

But to be fair, it’s my fault for staying with Evan for so long after he wouldn’t fully commit. Nor, ahem, take care of business like a man should. But I’m trying to let that era of my life go.

And sure, it’s mildly flattering that a gorgeous cowboy stranger just looked at me like I was the main course. But that kind of attention doesn’t touch the ache lodged somewhere deeper. The part of me still grieving what I thought I had.

Then again, maybe this is all in my head, and he did just want me to get the ketchup off my face.

My phone buzzes.

Avery: You better be having a GREAT time. Any hot guys there for you??

I snort and type back.

Cassie: No guys for me! I’m on a break. I told you. But I did see a hot cowboy.

Avery: Girl, a “break” doesn’t mean you have to join a convent. It just means no more emotionally unavailable losers. Big difference.

Cassie: Well, this one was emotionally available…to three different women at once.

Avery: Fair. You’re scarred from that. Still. I say let your body have a little fun. Your brain’s done enough heavy lifting this year. Plus, you can learn discretion. Something you’re going to have to learn now that you’re back in the dating pool. That requires experience. And wisdom.

Cassie: That’s what therapy is for. And wine. And this hot dog.

Avery: Tell me more about the hot cowboy please.

Cassie: No cowboy. Just a guy who handed me a napkin and walked away like he knew he was the plot twist I didn’t ask for.

Avery: So he was hot.

Cassie: He looked like sin in a flannel. But it’s fine. I’m totally immune.

Avery: You literally sent me a picture of your outfit with cleavage and boots. You are not immune, ma’am. You’re subconsciously putting out “the vibe” you just don’t want to admit it.

Cassie: Okay, but I didn’t wear this for him. I wore it for me. And also for the Dust Devils.

Avery: Sure, sure. Just don’t come crying to me when you end up riding a cowboy instead of your emotional healing plan. And for the record, I think that could help you quantum-leap years of therapy.

I stifle a grin as I pocket my phone and finish the rest of my beer.

Looking out at the crowd, I exhale slowly. The sun’s dipping low, casting golden light across the crowd, and for a second, it all feels…good.

I’ve come a long way in the past three months. Healing isn’t some glamorous, candlelit path. It’s messy, gut-wrenching, and often lonely.

And moving? Even harder.

Leaving Dallas—my home, my friends, my whole rhythm—to come to Riverbend, Iowa? That wasn’t just a change of scenery. It was a leap of faith.

But I did it.

I’m doing it.

Tonight is the last night of my in-between, staying at a hotel in a town an hour or so away from the bend. As we affectionately call Riverbend.

Tomorrow, I officially move into my new house.

Hopefully embarking on a whole new chapter, and a new town.

A new me.

And that’s what tonight is for. It’s about me, free as a bird, enjoying the night however I see fit—and welcoming this new chapter of my life.

I close my eyes for a second, letting the warm breeze wash over me as the crowd starts to buzz with anticipation.

Then I crack my neck and adjust the flannel around my waist.

“Alright, universe,” I say out loud. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”