Chapter 5
Five
The evening sun is seated low in the sky but still burns hot enough to bake the aluminum bleachers and add the smell of tanning skin to the leather, fried food, and horse aromas that fill the air.
We’re stopped in some small town for a weeknight rodeo on our way to a roping clinic the guys are signed up for later in the week, and I’ve never been more thankful for a side quest in my entire life.
Something about the milkshakes and fries—or maybe the adrenaline rush of thinking he got away with whatever the hell he was doing at the last rodeo—had Logan feeling extra chatty after we left the diner yesterday.
An hour later, he’d stumbled upon this rodeo on his social media feed, and the boys made a spur-of-the-moment decision to go three hours out of our way for it.
At first, I was surprised Holden agreed so easily, but I’m quickly learning we’re more alike than I initially thought. Both resolute in our intent to keep the boat from rocking, despite Logan’s tendency to create waves.
Not that I have any say, since I’m simply along for the ride, but I would’ve happily agreed anyway.
A rodeo means less time with the three of us in a confined space.
The nights on the road, when we’re parked in random truck stops or pullouts on the side of the highway, are the worst. Holden’s always around, always simultaneously tugging at my last nerve and the tightly wound coil beneath my navel.
And I’m forced to play happy couple with Logan, which only feels more fraudulent as the days go on.
In keeping up appearances, I settle into a spot along the fence rail, leaning my bare arms on the warm metal, just in time for the team roping event.
I never bother to watch the entire rodeo, so there’s no sense in cramming myself into the sea of sweaty people sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the stands.
I’m here for Logan’s runs, and once my duty is complete, I’ll head back to the trailer with some piping-hot poutine and curl up with a book.
Dust motes glint in the golden sunset, kicked up by a steer who’s gallivanting around the arena as if he’s mocking the cowboys who couldn’t catch him.
I see Holden first. The tension he always carries has sharpened into something lethal here. He’s controlled and focused, with square shoulders and a set jaw. His cowboy hat sits low over his brow to cut the sun’s glare, and he doesn’t fuck around for a single second getting his horse into the box.
Then Logan appears, and for a heartbeat, butterflies gather in my stomach for the first time in a long time.
With a grin, he gives me a wink as he leisurely swings his rope at his side.
Before him, I’d never met a person whose default was unabashed confidence.
It’s what made me fall in love with him, kind of like every woman in the crowd seems to be—if the amount of phones being pulled out and aimed at him are any indication.
The duo sets themselves up in the two roping boxes on either side of the chute, and a few seconds later, the metal gate opens with a clang.
The steer bolts, and Logan is already surging ahead on horseback. With ease, as if it’s an extension of his arm, the loop of rope cuts through the air with one, then two rapid swings before gracefully settling around the steer’s head like a wreath.
Without a moment of hesitation, Holden’s there, snapping his own rope around the steer’s heels. Fast, precise, and without a single wasted movement.
Time stills with Logan and Holden beaming at each other. Pride swells in my chest. This is a dance they’ve done a million times; two brothers so in sync, surely nothing could ever cause a tangle or tear between them.
The minute Logan’s moved on, Holden calmly pats his horse’s neck on his way out of the arena, ignoring the crowd and me and even the announcer shouting about the pair breaking an arena record.
I really don’t want to fuck up our last season roping together, Sunday.
Holden’s words sit on my shoulders as I watch the brothers ride off toward our trailer.
I don’t think he was talking about the money, the winning, the afterparties.
I think he’s scared of losing the moment when they look up at each other through the cloud of dust, across twisted ropes and a strung-out steer, to share a deep level of intimacy and connection they don’t experience anywhere else.
If he’s right about how Logan will handle a breakup, there’s a real chance they lose all that. And it’s fleeting anyways, with Holden planning on quitting soon. As badly as I want to go home and move on, something else claws at my chest—I don’t want to be the reason it all falls apart.
By the time I’ve meandered my way back to the trailer, the two of them are nearly done with their celebratory beer.
Holden’s sprawled across the small patch of grass outside the trailer, leaning back on his elbows, looking more relaxed and content than I’ve ever seen.
Logan smiles up at me from his camp chair and beckons me over.
His cheeks are still flushed from the run, and the bottom half of his jeans are covered in a film of light-brown dust.
“Did you see that run?” He laughs breathlessly. “All thanks to my lucky charm watching from the sidelines.”
Oh, he’s laying it on thick today.
I laugh, too, and let him pull me into his lap because it’s easy to play pretend with him when things are like this. “I’m pretty sure you were good at this long before I came around.”
“Mm… debatable. At the very least, we weren’t breaking arena records before you came along.” His arms loosen around my waist so he can grab his beer bottle for another long pull, then his cold, moistened lips press to my temple.
Holden huffs. “We weren’t breaking records before this year because we weren’t rodeoing in middle-of-nowhere arenas. Has nothing to do with your girlfriend tagging along.”
I flinch at the word girlfriend and again when Logan’s free-hand splays across my stomach possessively. Suddenly, his lap is uncomfortable, his thighs too bony, his grip on me suffocating.
“Ignore him, baby,” Logan whispers against my hair. As if I could ignore him. All I can focus on is the death-grip Holden has on the glass neck of his beer bottle while he downs the last few drops. “You’re still my lucky charm. What do you want for dinner? My treat.”
“I’ve been craving poutine all day.” I saw a woman walk by with one before the rodeo started and have been salivating at the thought of it since.
His nose scrunches. “I was thinking something fancier than that.”
“Oh, um…”
“Thought we could hit up the steak dinner the rodeo association’s putting on.”
My smile fades a little, and I steal the beer from his hand so I can sip and stall until I’m able to give him the enthusiasm he wants. Yes, I’m dating a cowboy. Yes, I grew up in cattle country. But yes, I prefer chicken over steak.
“Doubt they’ll have poutine at the steak dinner,” Holden notes.
“Every rodeo we go to has poutine. Most don’t have steak dinners—we’ll get poutine another time.” Logan brushes a lock of my hair behind my ear. “I want to show off my gorgeous good luck charm tonight.”
“Jesus Christ,” Holden mutters under his breath. He’s notably less relaxed, eyes trained on the paper label he’s picking off his beer bottle. “Why bother asking?”
“What?” Logan asks.
“Why bother asking what she wants if you already decided for her?”
A question I’ve silently asked a million times over the past year. At this point, I have to assume he derives pleasure from trivializing my thoughts and opinions.
“That’s not what I’m doing—we all deserve a steak dinner after that run.”
Matter-of-factly, Holden replies, “Sunday wants poutine.”
“No,” I interrupt, glaring at Holden in a way that I hope conveys please, stop. This isn’t worth ruining his mood. Though I kind of love having somebody stand up for me for once in my life. “I didn’t realize there’s a steak dinner happening. That sounds great.”
The corner of Logan’s lip curls upward. “Go get yourself dolled up for dinner, baby.”
I pull myself from Logan’s lap, brushing my hands over my ass to sweep away the arena dust, and savor the heat of two sets of eyes as I walk away.
A little after ten o’clock, I’m tucked in the corner of the sofa bed with a Diet Coke and a hockey romance.
Knees pulled to my chest—Kindle balancing precariously on them—I’m cocooned by the oversize sweatshirt pulled all the way down over my bare legs.
Outside, the trailer generator hums low and slow, responsible only for powering the fridge and a single tiny light above the stove.
I’m full—overfull, really—of steak dinner, polite smiles, and the touch of a man whose possessive hold and showy kisses made the food and wine churn in my stomach.
Logan was the center of attention the entire night, as per usual. Part of me used to crave the flickers of stray light I’d catch from being on his arm. After a year of trying to wedge myself into the radiance that surrounds Logan, I think I’m finally happier in the dark.
Which is why I didn’t care when Logan dropped me off at the trailer with a promise to be back soon and a grin that said he’d be lying to my face if I questioned him on it.
The trailer door opens slowly. I can tell it’s Holden from the sound of his footsteps.
Then the smell of gravy, cheese, and fryer grease washes over me. I know that smell. I’ve been thinking about it all damn day.
My eyes lift from the glow of my Kindle screen to find him standing in the open doorway, backlit by the white cast of the full moon, holding an off-white cardboard take-out container in his giant hands.
He holds it out to me. “You still want this?”
“I already ate…”
“I didn’t ask if you’d eaten.” His wrist twists slightly to shake the box in front of me, like he’s trying to lure in a stray dog. “You said you wanted poutine earlier. You made a face when Logan brought up steak.”
Oh… So he has been watching me. It wasn’t all in my head.