Chapter 4
four
. . .
SIENNA
I lay there staring at the water stain on the ceiling—shaped like a boot, I'd decided—and seriously considered never moving again.
I'd agreed to get up this early for a man who didn't even want my help. A man who was probably downstairs right now, hoping I'd sleep in so he'd have one more reason to write me off.
I swiped the alarm off and threw the covers back. Fuck Brock Wilder. I'd be on time just to spite him.
I fumbled through the dark, pulling on Wren’s jeans and the first tank top I touched. The only flat shoes I had were a pair of white sneakers. I twisted my hair into a messy ponytail, scrubbed my teeth, and snatched my laptop on the way downstairs.
The moment I reached the bottom step, something heavy pressed against my thigh. I jolted, barely swallowing a yelp.
In the shadows, Moose looked up at me, his tail thumping against the floorboards.
I scratched his chest. "Morning, big guy."
He let out a happy huff and pressed his warm bulk against my leg, nearly knocking me off balance as he escorted me down the hallway.
The kitchen smelled like fresh coffee, warm and quiet except for the low hum of the fridge. Brock was already at the counter, mug in hand. His charcoal T-shirt clung to his muscular arms, soft and faded, like it had been washed a hundred times.
He glanced at the clock, then at me, looking irritatingly awake.
"Huh," he said. "Didn't think you'd actually show."
I set the laptop on the wooden table. "Then you don't know me very well."
He nodded toward the coffee pot. "Mugs are in the cabinet above the sink."
"Thanks."
I grabbed one and poured. The pot was full, way more than one person needed. So he'd expected me after all.
I kept that little win to myself. The coffee was dark, hot, and faintly bitter. That first sip woke me right up. I carried the mug to the table, opened my laptop, and pulled up the notes I'd drafted on the plane.
"Okay," I said. "First thing we need to handle is that bar video. I’ve got a short statement for you to—"
"No."
I looked up. "You haven’t even heard it."
"Don't need to."
He crossed to the sink like the conversation was already over, drained his mug, rinsed it, and set it on the rack.
"I ain't reading some script your agency wrote," he said flatly.
"I wrote it. And it’s not a script, it’s a statement. Thirty seconds. We film it, post it, and your sponsor has a reason not to drop you."
"If folks have already made up their minds about me, thirty seconds isn’t gonna change a damn thing."
"That’s not the point."
"Then what is?"
"To control the narrative."
He headed for the back door. Moose perked up and trotted after him, but Brock pointed a finger down. "Stay, Moose. Rio doesn’t need you spooking him this early."
Moose let out a loud huff and collapsed into a fluffy pile on the braided rug.
Brock grabbed his hat. "Horses need feeding. You’re welcome to keep talking, but I’m going outside."
He didn’t wait for a reply. The door banged shut behind him, and I stared at it for a second.
I closed my eyes, counted to five, then finished my coffee in a couple of swallows. I stepped over the sulking mountain of Moose and went after him.
The mudroom was a mess of boots and jackets. The screen door hung open, letting in the morning chill that hit me the second I stepped outside. The sky was just starting to lighten—a thin pink band glowing at the horizon under all that dark blue.
Brock was already halfway to the barn, his long strides eating up the ground. I hurried after him. Dew soaked straight through my sneakers.
He must’ve heard me coming. His shoulders tightened right before he shoved the barn doors open. He didn’t bother holding them, so I had to catch the edge before it swung back and smacked me.
Inside, it smelled like hay, leather, and horses. A pair of worn chaps hung over a stall door. Brock walked to a stack of hay bales, yanked one open, and started pulling off big flakes. He tossed them over the first stall door.
I followed, stepping carefully over loose straw.
"The statement isn’t an apology," I said.
That made him stop. He looked back at me.
"Then what is it?"
"Right now, all anyone’s seen is you punching someone without context. And people don’t fill in the blanks kindly. They’re calling you a hothead with a drinking problem."
His jaw tightened, that small twitch in his cheek like he was biting down on something. “I wasn’t drunk.”
He turned back to the stall and kept working, tossing thick chunks of hay over the door. The sweet, dusty smell filled the air as he moved down the aisle.
"The statement is only four sentences," I said. "You just acknowledge what happened and say you’re gonna do better. You could even say something like, that’s not who I am."
“That’s not who I am,” he repeated in a mocking drawl. He grabbed the next bale, snapped the twine with his bare hands, and broke it apart. "You don’t know who I am."
He moved to the next stall. I moved with him. My sneakers squeaked on the concrete, and he glanced down at them for half a second—the same look as yesterday.
"What happened at that bar?" I asked.
"You saw the video."
"I saw you hit a guy. I don’t know why."
He tossed another flake of hay into the stall. I waited. Nothing.
"Brock," I tried again, softer, "if I’m gonna help you, I need to know what happened."
"A guy ran his mouth about my family. I shut it for him. That’s the whole story."
I believed him. I just didn’t think that was everything, but I didn’t push.
“Fine,” I said. “You don’t have to tell me what he said. But Outlaw’s got a morality clause in your contract. They hired me so they don’t have to drop you. Push them too far and they will. So we can get control of the story now… or they’ll make the decision for you.”
Somewhere down the aisle, a horse knocked its hoof against wood.
“You don’t need to say sorry if it would sound fake,” I added. “That’d be worse than staying silent.”
Something shifted in his face. He leaned the bale against the stall and looked at me.
“Let me see it,” he said.
I pulled my phone from my back pocket and opened my notes app. He took it and read it, hay dust floating in the early light around him.
"I take full responsibility for my actions that night," he read aloud. "This doesn’t sound like me."
"Then tell me what does and I’ll rewrite it."
He handed the phone back. "If I was any good with words, I wouldn’t be in this mess."
"Okay. Forget what I wrote. If someone asked you about that night, what would you say?"
"That I’d do it again."
Great. He was proud of it. That was going to be a problem.
"Maybe don’t lead with that," I said. "Why would you do it again?"
"Because nobody talks about my family like that."
We could work with that.
“What about this,” I said. “You could say you let your emotions get the best of you, but you’re focused on the season now. Keep it short. That gives your sponsor what they need.”
He looked at his hands for a long moment, jaw tight, then let out a slow breath.
"Fine,” he grumbled. “Where do we film it?"
I looked around the barn. Early light filtered through the slats. Behind Brock, a white horse had its head over the stall door, lipping at his shoulder. He reached back and rubbed its nose without looking.
"Right here," I said. "Just say it like you’re talking to someone."
"Well, come on then, before I change my mind."
I tapped my screen and opened the camera. "You should take your hat off."
He looked at me like I’d asked him to strip naked.
"It reads better," I explained. "People want to see your face."
He pulled the hat off slowly and held it at his side. The morning light hit his face, and he looked like he’d rather be anywhere else in the world.
"Whenever you’re ready," I said, and hit record.
His eyes were startlingly blue. Good. That would read on camera.
"Last week, a video went around of me in a bar fight. I ain’t gonna make excuses for it. I let my emotions run hot, and I know that let a lot of people down. My focus now is on the season ahead."
One take. He nailed it the second he stopped fighting me.
"Happy?" he asked.
"It’s perfect."
He put his hat back on and walked away from me. "There. Now you can leave me alone."
I shoved my phone into my back pocket and hurried after him, sneakers slipping on the straw as I tried to match his long strides.
“I woke up at five for you. My socks are soaked, I haven’t had breakfast, and I have a content calendar to fill. So no—I’m not leaving you alone. I’m following you around until I get enough footage to convince people you’re actually likable.”
"Good luck with that," he muttered.
For the next hour, I followed him around the barn, snatching short clips whenever he wasn’t looking. Hauling bales. Crouching beside a horse while he ran a hand down its front leg, murmuring something too low for me to hear.
He mostly ignored the phone. But every so often, his gaze drifted to it, his jaw tightening a little each time.
The barn was warming up fast. Sweat gathered at his temples. I circled around for a better angle as he reached for another bag of feed.
"Hold on," I said. "Can you grab that one from the other side? The light’s better."
He shifted his stance, grabbed the canvas bag, and heaved it over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his neck with the back of his forearm.
"You know," he said, "you can ask me to take my shirt off. Save us both the trouble."
My thumb slipped, and I accidentally stopped recording.
I lowered the phone. “Please. Why would I bother with a guy whose job lasts eight seconds?”
He froze. Then he let out a short, surprised laugh—the first real one I’d heard from him.
"Alright, Starlin’," he said, shaking his head. "I’ll give you that one."
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I won’t tell anyone you laughed.”
He turned back to the feed, but I caught the faint smile before he killed it.
I kept filming a little longer. Once Brock went back to pretending I wasn’t there, the shots actually got better. When I was satisfied with the amount of clips, I pocketed my phone.