Grace
Six Weeks until the Rodeo
“Hey, stranger!” Carson’s face fills my phone screen, her smile bright. Her dark curls hang loose, surrounding her like a halo, while her voice echoes.
“Who are you calling stranger? I literally texted you this morning.” I’m about to ask her where she is, but when she takes a seat and the audio booth appears behind her, it’s obvious she’s in the studio.
I probably should’ve guessed that anyway, even if it’s nine o’clock at night; she spends most of her time there.
“I know, but I haven’t seen that pretty face in so very long.” She elongates the o for several seconds, forcing me to roll my eyes playfully at her exaggeration.
“You, my friend, are the queen of all drama queens.”
“And that’s exactly the way I like it,” she responds, flicking several curls back over her shoulder. “So, what’s so urgent that you had to interrupt my masterclass?”
“Cars, I thought we discussed this—you can’t refer to everything you do as a masterclass. People will start to think you’re insane.”
“You’re wrong.”
“Good point,” I respond, placing my phone down to lean against the bathroom mirror so I can remove my makeup, “bit hard to start now if they’ve always thought that.”
Her responding humph and wrist flick make me laugh. “I’m an acquired taste.”
“Oh sweetie, I know that all too well.” I head back into my room, Carson securely in my grasp, and flop backwards onto the double bed of my teenage years. “Have you ever done a rodeo?”
Carson regards me with a raised brow. “Don’t you think you’d know if I’d ever competed in rodeo, G?”
“Not competed in, you dummy. Performed at.”
She narrows her eyes ever so slightly. “I have not...” she trails off.
Grinning widely, I respond, “Wanna add it to your bucket list?”
“G, what’re you going on about?”
I sit up, take a deep breath, and run through my sales pitch in my head one last time.
I’ve been through it at least four times already, but I’m stressed about missing something.
Yes, Carson is my best friend, but she’s also a professional perfectionist, and needs all the information delivered accurately and succinctly.
“The 75th Annual Beaumont Ridge Rodeo is coming up soon, and we’re turning it into a Rodeo Festival for the ages.
It’s a huge milestone for the town, and really important to the Beaumonts and their legacy.
There was talk of incorporating a musical item into both the rodeo event and the gala dinner, so I put your name forward.
Obviously no one was able to name someone bigger than Carson James, so now I’m here to beg, coerce, and bribe you into saying yes.
Also,” I hurry to add before she can get a word in, “I’d like to remind you about the time I saved you from an awful date and you said, and I quote, ‘I owe you one’. ”
I watch her closely as she ponders, but her face gives away nothing. “A rodeo,” she repeats.
“Yes, a rodeo.”
“So there’ll be, like, rodeo sports and… sportspeople?” Her brows draw together, creating a confused frown.
I draw my lips in to bite away my smile. If she were a man, God bless her, she’d be the epitome of thinking with your dick. “Is that your way of asking if hot men will be there?”
She gasps. “Grace, if you’re insinuating that hot men are all that matter to me, then you’re absolutely right. And I’d be thoroughly offended if you expected me to perform anywhere lacking hot men.”
I perk up. “So, is that a yes?”
“Are you kidding?” Carson props her phone up on the desk, freeing her hands to throw them up in the air. “A rodeo festival with hot cowboys? Sign me the hell up! I was born for this,” she says with a toss of her hair.
I squeal before quickly throwing a hand over my mouth—completely forgetting it’s late and Dad is probably asleep already. “Eeep!” I whisper shout. “We’re going to have the best time.”
“Obviously. Now, tell me more about these rugged cowboys. Are we talking young Clint Eastwood vibes, or more of a Scott Eastwood type?” She raises a brow, smirking.
“I don’t know if the Eastwoods are the best reference, given one looks like the other.”
She rolls her eyes playfully. “Ugh, fine. Eastwood style or Yellowstone—is that better?”
I hum, considering her question. Carson stares at me so intensely that all I can do is grin back at her. “Y’know what? I think there’s a mix of both.”
“Really?” Her voice is several octaves higher than usual.
“Oh yeah, absolutely. Mason would constitute a rugged Yellowstone type, whereas his twin, Elliot, has more of that Eastwood charm,” I say as I count them on my fingers.
“I haven’t met Tāne, but I’ve been told by Whit that he’s a big, beautiful New Zealander, so I think he’s a category on his own, and Rhett—well, I’m not sure how I’d explain Rhett. ”
This gets her attention. “Rhett as in your man’s older brother?” She waggles her eyebrows, to which I roll my eyes.
“Not my man, but yes, that Rhett.”
Tapping her finger on her chin, she contemplates this for a second. Having made up her mind, she flicks her hand dismissively. “We could probably skip him. You can keep those genes to yourself.”
I let out a loud laugh. “Again, not mine.”
“Okay, Grace, whatever you say. You’re not still harboring feelings for the only guy you’ve ever loved, who also happens to be in the tiny town you’re spending two months in. Nothing happening there.”
All I can do is shake my head. I rub my hand across my forehead, as if I can erase the images conjured up by Carson. “Can we get back on track now?”
She smiles sweetly, batting her lashes. “Of course we can, honey pie. Now that we’ve got the hot cowboy business sorted, let’s circle back to your rodeo festival sales pitch—which, by the way, you aced. Who’s ‘we’?”
“We?” I ask, feeling my brows crease.
“Yeah, we. You were all ‘we’ this and ‘we’ that. Who’s involved?” Carson throws her hands around with each we.
“Uh…” I start, feeling a blush spreading across my freshly cleansed face. I have no idea how to explain that my ex-boyfriend and I are leading the charge on this without sounding far too invested.
“Oh my god, don’t tell me Tucker is involved?”
My silence is telling. The second I avert my gaze, Carson plants her hand over her mouth and lets out a muffled scream.
“Grace! I can see you blushing all the way from Chicago. You’ve been holding out on me.” She smirks.
“You need to be less observant.”
“Never. Now tell me how you managed to find yourself in this situation?”
Despite the late hour, we spend another forty minutes on the phone. By the time we call it a night, my eyes feel like they’re bugging out of my head and I’m yawning more than I’m not. But our musical headliner is confirmed, and she’ll be here in a fortnight for the planning meeting.
As I drift off to sleep, I can’t help but think about how excited Whitney will be when I update her tomorrow, which leads me into thinking about how Tucker might respond to the news.
He always was adorable when he got excited—he could never stay still.
I remember the way he couldn’t stop bobbing and bouncing around after I’d said yes to his promposal, telling everyone we knew that he’d been lucky enough to have me as his date.
Of course, nobody could quite understand his excitement—considering we’d been dating for over three years they assumed it was a given.
For someone who’s probably never been involved in event organization at this level, Tucker is doing a pretty good job.
He’s more invested than I’d ever expected him to be, and it warms my heart thinking about getting to deliver this news to him.
His face is always gorgeous, but the way the corner of his eyes crinkle and his irises shine brightly when he’s excited is on a whole other level.
“Hey, Dad,” I call out slightly breathless, hopping as I attempt to pull my boots off at the front door.
“In here, peanut.” I follow the gruff sound of his voice and end up in the kitchen where I come face-to-face with him standing over a mixing bowl, ingredients strewn across the countertop.
“What in God’s name are you doing?”
He gestures to the chaos before him with both hands, and it takes me a second to realize why that seems so strange.
He isn’t holding his crutches.
“Dad! Where the hell are your crutches?” I whirl around the counter to find him standing on his good leg, with the cast-clad one resting on a dining chair. His crutches lean against a drawer several feet away; apparently this is a perfectly acceptable place for them to be.
“See, they’re just there. Don’t be such a worry wort, kiddo. I’m doin’ just fine. They only get in the way.”
I let out a sigh, shaking my head and pinching the bridge of my nose. “It’s almost like you enjoy trying to take years off my life, like it’s a form of entertainment for you.”
Dad raises an eyebrow. “Shouldn’t it be the other way ‘round? The kid should be tryna do that to the parent I thought.”
“Yes, yes it should. And we can get back to those roles just as soon as you put those damn crutches back under your arms.” I grab the crutches, holding them out to Dad.
He lets out a sigh and takes them from me, maneuvering his way off the dining chair.
“What storm were you trying to cook up here anyway?”
“Wanted to make you some pumpkin soup. Would’ve succeeded, too, if the damn thing hadn’t taken a dive.” My eyes follow where he points, and I see the pumpkin lying on the floor on the other side of the kitchen.
“Alright Chef Ramsay, let’s get you to the table so I can finish this without any more hazards.”
Huffing, he hobbles over to the table and takes a seat. “Tell me about your day.”
“It wasn’t too bad,” I say, collecting the stray pumpkin. “Couple of embroidery orders were collected, and made a fair few walk-in sales from the boot sale.”
“Good to hear, kiddo. Good to hear. Any updates on the rodeo festival front?”
Excitement causes me to drop the knife I’m holding. One glance at Dad says he missed witnessing that, thank God. “Huge update, actually—as of last night, Carson’s agreed to sign on as the headliner.”
“I didn’t doubt she would for a second, but that’s mighty exciting. You’ll have your hands full soon.”
Resuming the soup prep, I respond, “It’s going to be a lot of work with looking after the store and all, but I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it; never met a challenge you couldn’t handle after all, but I’m gonna help you with this one anyway—Lorelei is goin’ full time, just until I’m back in action.”
“But Dad, that’s half the reason I’m here.”
“Now you have a new half a reason: helpin’ out this festival. I heard you an’ Tucker are headin’ it up?”
“And who’d you hear that from?”
“A lil birdie.” His smile is almost too innocent.
“Regardless of whether or not that’s true, I took this on knowing I’d do both, Dad. I’m not about to abandon you.”
“C’mere, peanut.” Dad motions to the chair beside him, trying to kick it out for me with his good leg. At this rate, we’ll be eating mac and cheese for dinner, because this soup is never getting finished.
“I know more than anything you’d never abandon me, so don’t you worry about that, okay?” He reaches over, placing his hand on mine and squeezing. “I’m just sayin’ you don’t have to do both. Just focus on what matters most.”
I squeeze his hand back. “You matter most.”
“To you, yes. But to the town? You could help turn this thing ‘round for the better. You know better than anyone how much this means to the town and the Beaumonts. Imagine the kinda thing you could pull off if you had more time during the day.”
I feel my expression slacken. “Dad, are you sure?”
“Certainly am,” he says with a pat on my knee.
“And Lorelei is really fine with this?” I narrow my eyes, trying to get him to crack.
He lets out a passive aggressive sigh, rolling his eyes. “Grace Louise Clark, my leg’ll be healed by the time this conversation ends.”
“Alright, alright, fine,” I concede, much to Dad’s enjoyment.
He crosses his arms over his chest with a smug smile. “No pressure or anything, but this better be the best damn Rodeo Festival this town has ever seen.”
I can’t help but scoff. “Dad, c’mon. I’m in charge. It’ll be the best this state has ever seen.”