Chapter Twenty-Three
The arena hums like it’s already full, though the stands won’t see a single spectator for another couple of hours.
Diesel fumes, dust, and the restless shuffle of livestock hang thick in the early afternoon air.
The sounds of metal gates clanging and men calling to each other as they prepare for the evening’s festivities fuel something deep inside of me.
I’ve only been off the circuit for a couple of months, but I miss it.
Miss the anticipation and the adrenaline rush.
Charli walks beside me through the staging area, wearing a wine-colored V-neck T-shirt, tucked into a pair of faded jeans that are so worn that they’re practically molded to her curves.
Her hair’s hanging down her back in soft waves, a cowboy hat pulled low over her brow.
She doesn’t say much, but her eyes take everything in—the bulls, the riders, the crews running cables and cameras.
She looks like she belongs here better than most of the men milling around.
We reach the Bull Rope Whiskey trailer, parked alongside the sponsor’s rigs. The damn thing’s slick—wrapped in matte black with the logo in copper script. It’s flanked by the Dry Canyon Distilling logo, and my name’s stenciled beneath.
Inside, cool air greets us. A couple of the Bull Rope PR girls are already waiting—smiles bright, tablets in hand.
“Mr. Raintree,” one of them chirps, “we’re so excited to have you officially wearing the brand today.”
I nod and give them a practiced half smile. They lead me toward the leather couch, where the new gear is laid out. A branded vest, a crisp button-down, a pair of leather chaps with fringe, and silver spurs catching the light.
“Miss, you can have a seat while we get him ready,” one of them says to Charli.
She drops onto the couch, crossing her legs. I catch the smirk on her lips when I pull off my T-shirt, tug on the green button-up, and slip into the vest. Her eyes trace the Bull Rope patch stitched across my chest before sliding up to meet mine.
“Nice,” she mutters.
The PR girls fuss—adjusting straps, dusting my shoulders, checking the fit of everything, switching out the brown chaps for a black pair. They’re professionals, but still, it feels strange, being dressed liked a kid.
“Let’s get the boots,” one says, crouching to open the box at my feet. She helps me step into a brand-new pair—black ostrich skin with a polished silver inlay.
I glance at Charli. She’s lounging back, arms stretched across the top of the couch, like she’s enjoying the show.
“Comfortable?” I ask her.
“Watching you get dressed up like a Ken doll? More than comfortable,” she says, eyes glinting.
The women laugh lightly, mistaking the sarcasm for charm. I just grunt and let them finish, even as her voice sticks in my head.
When they’re satisfied, they lead me out to the back of the arena. The late afternoon sun hits hard—thick and gold, the dust kicking up in the breeze, turning everything into a hazy glow. A photographer waits by the rail, a rigging draped over one shoulder, camera slung across his chest.
“Hey, Bryce. I’m Burke,” he introduces himself, and we shake hands. “We’re gonna start simple,” he says. “I’m just gonna have you lean against the rail for a few test shots. Give me quiet confidence. That brooding thing you cowboys do so well.”
I rest a hand on the railing, the other holding the Bull Rope bottle they hand me. The glass flashes amber in the light. Burke slings the rigging over my opposite shoulder, and I stare past the lens like I’m thinking about the next ride as he steps behind the camera.
Click. Click. Click.
The photographer circles me, shouting adjustments—chin down, eyes over here, hand higher. I fall into the rhythm easily. I’ve done this dance before. The trick is pretending it’s just you standing in the arena, alone, staring down the next ride.
Movement near the trailers catches my eye.
Charli’s standing by the fence now, her back to me, talking to a few riders. I recognize them instantly—Axle and Royce, her cousins. Beside them are Chase Braun and Porter Lane—two up-and-comers with more swagger than sense.
Porter leans in when she laughs. I know his type—the kind who thinks he can charm the pants off any woman.
The photographer’s still barking instructions, but my focus keeps slipping. My jaw tightens when Porter steps too close, crowding her space.
“Bryce, look this way,” the photographer calls.
I do, but my eyes flick back to Charli. Axle hugs her, Royce says something that makes her laugh again, and Porter leans on the fence beside her.
The click of the camera blends in with the sound of my pulse thundering in my ear.
Then Micah walks up, all tailored shirt and wealthy confidence. The owner of Dry Canyon Distilling doesn’t miss a thing. He stops beside me and slides his sunglasses down his nose as his eyes flicker between Charli, the riders, and me standing there with a whiskey bottle in hand, wearing a scowl.
“Hell of a turnout,” he says. “And hell of a view.” His gaze shifts toward Charli. “That rehab assistant of yours sure is drawing a crowd of her own.”
“Yeah,” I growl.
Micah chuckles, low and knowing. “Well, let’s see if you can draw it back.”
He waves over one of the PR women. “Go get Monica.”
The woman who steps up is all legs and confidence, jeans painted on, tank top clinging for dear life. She’s holding another bottle of Bull Rope, fresh out of the cooler, condensation beading down the glass.
“Bryce, Monica here’s going to help us sell the fantasy,” Micah explains before walking back to stand with the others behind the camera.
She hands me the bottle, then climbs the rail like she’s been rehearsing. Burke starts clicking away before she even settles.
“Stand between her legs,” he instructs.
She spreads her thighs in invitation, and I step forward, resting my hands on the rails beside her hips. The wood warm under my palms. Monica smells like whiskey and vanilla. The sun hits her raven hair as she unscrews the bottle and takes a long drink, then presses it to my chest.
“Now,” the photographer calls, “Bryce, tilt your head up. Monica, lean down and kiss him.”
She clasps my jaw, her mouth hovering over mine, while Burke snaps a few shots, and then her gloss-covered lips are on mine.
“Hands on her hips, Bryce,” he says. “Closer. Now pull her in. That’s it. Perfect.”
The camera’s shutter is going rapid-fire as Monica wraps her arms around my neck, the bottle dangling behind me between her fingers. We hold the pose, her lips lingering on mine.
When the photographer finally lowers the camera, my hands slip from her body, and I take a step back, helping Monica hop down. Once her feet are planted, my focus snaps past her—to Charli.
She’s still by the fence. Her arms are crossed, her mouth a hard line. Those fierce blue eyes are locked on me, sharp enough to cut through steel.
Good, I think before I can stop myself. Because that burn in her gaze feels close to what’s been sitting in my chest all damn morning.
The shoot drags on another twenty minutes—different poses, different props. Monica keeps the flirting up between shots, but I can tell it’s just her attempt to keep the chemistry sparking.
But that spark crackling in my chest isn’t about the model standing in front of me. It’s about the woman waiting at the fence.
When we’re finally done and Burke calls it a wrap, Micah claps me on the back. “That was spectacular,” he says. “Cameras love you as much as the crowd.”
He explains the plan for the day as we walk to where Charli and the other riders stand.
The cameras will pan to me several times during the event, teasing the audience about a big announcement.
I’ll hand out prizes after the final round, then officially introduce Dry Canyon as the major sponsor.
Micah will take it from there, unveiling Bull Rope Whiskey and our collaboration.
He gives Charli a hug and kisses her cheek. “I’ll see you two in thirty,” he says before walking off with Burke to look at the film.
I put on a smile as I greet the boys. Axle pulled the meanest bull of the day, and he’s itching to get on its back.
Chase and Porter are on his tail, chasing the win after yesterday’s rides.
But Royce is out of the running after being tossed three seconds in.
Charli waits patiently as we talk shop before they hurry away to get ready.
“You hungry?” I ask. “We should grab some food before this thing gets started.” The last thing I need is the cameras catching me wolfing down chili dogs during the show.
“You done playing cowboy model?” she quips.
I smirk. “You didn’t like the show?”
“Oh, I liked it fine,” she says. “Especially the part where you and that woman—what’s her name, Monica?—tried to swallow each other.”
“It was just work. It wasn’t real,” I say, trying not to laugh.
“It sure looked real from where I was standing,” she mutters.
“Then I guess we did our job,” I say as I press my hand to the small of her back and lead her forward.
She scoffs. “Yep. So convincing.”
I step closer, my lips going to her ear. “You were watching awful close for someone who didn’t like it.”
Her eyes flash as she glances back at me. Then her lips twitch, fighting a smile she doesn’t want to give me. “You were watching me awfully hard yourself, cowboy.”
“You are quite a distraction, darlin’.” That seems to please her because she finally starts walking, keeping a half step ahead of me, pretending to study the bulls being loaded into pens.
Inside the trailer, I send one of the PR girls to concessions to grab us some food.
“Micah says we’ll be sitting in the suite with him and his wife,” I tell her. “Cameras’ll be panning our way a few times.”
“Great,” she says dryly, looking down at herself. “I should have worn something else.” Then her finger goes to her hair. “And curled my hair.”
“You look perfect,” I murmur, stepping closer again. “Just like that.”
She looks up at me, eyes narrowing. “Says the man who has two fairy godmothers fluttering around, getting him ready for his close-up.”
I grin. “Well, we’re not all natural beauties. Some of us need the help.”
For a second, it’s quiet. Just the hum of the AC and the noise of the arena outside.
Then she sighs, sinking onto the couch again. “Right.”
“It’s true. You sure had those cowboys eating out of the palm of your hand.”
She scoffs. “They were just being nice because they’re friends with Axle and Royce.”
“Trust me, those boys weren’t just being nice.”
She raises a brow. “Jealous, Mr. Raintree?”
“I just know their type,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Especially Porter Lane. He’s trouble.”
“So are you,” she fires back.
“Exactly. That’s how I know,” I say, “and you’re only here to handle one cocky cowboy this weekend.”
That gets a reaction. Her head snaps up, mouth parting like she’s about to throw something sharp. But instead, she just smirks, slow and dangerous.
“Good thing,” she says. “Because you’re a full-time job.”
I laugh under my breath, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.
Her eyes flick to mine. I don’t know what it is about her that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s how she doesn’t try to impress me. Maybe it’s that she sees through the bullshit version of me everyone else buys. Whatever it is, it’s starting to stick—deep.
The door flies open, and the sound makes her jump slightly.
The girls enter, carrying trays of greasy food that we barely have time to scarf down before being wrangled to our seats.