Chapter 8 #2
"I’m surviving him." I gripped the edge of the table, my face warming up. "Because I have a job to do."
"You said he gave you his jacket. In cowboy culture, I’m pretty sure that’s basically a proposal."
"It’s really not."
Mara sighed, the teasing fading. “By the way… I should probably tell you something before I forget.”
“What?”
“The Bursar’s office sent the automated email this morning.”
My stomach dropped. "The fall statement?"
"Yeah. They added the lab fees. I knew there would be some, but I underestimated it. The number I gave you was wrong.”
“When is it due?”
“August fifteenth.” She cleared her throat. “I’ll call financial aid Monday. I’ll figure it out."
"Mara, stop. You’re not taking out another loan. I planned for this."
"But—"
"No buts. I’m going to get this cowboy to behave, land the bonus, and we’ll be fine. Now go study."
"Are you sure?"
I swallowed. "I’m sure. I’ll text you later, okay? Love you."
I ended the call. The kitchen went quiet again.
I stared at my laptop screen, my mind racing. The campaign was not fine.
Brock had done the podcast as I'd requested, doing the bare minimum to cooperate with me before retreating back into his silence. But when the host handed him the perfect opening—an easy question about what fueled those incredible eight-second rides, the setup we’d rehearsed for the sponsor plug—Brock had leaned into the microphone and said:
"Black coffee and the need to pay property taxes."
The clip went viral within hours. His fans loved it. Outlaw did not.
Then Avery's email landed in my inbox.
Need update ASAP.
They want a dedicated Outlaw post by the end of the week or they’re pulling the bonus.
Seven days until Cheyenne. Less than a month until tuition was due. And I still didn't have the sponsored content to send them.
A familiar, sickening dread settled in my stomach—the same feeling I'd had sitting at my kitchen table in Chicago, watching Trent pack his boxes.
Never again, I'd promised myself that day. I would never let a man compromise my career again. And yet here I was, covering for Brock's stubbornness and letting my boundaries blur just because he'd let me sleep on his shoulder.
I pushed back from the table and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.
When I lowered them, Brock was standing in the kitchen doorway. He'd showered since the diner, his hat gone, damp hair curling slightly at the ends. His gaze flicked from my face to the laptop screen.
"When's the last time you ate something?" he asked.
"I had pancakes."
"That was seven hours ago."
"I’m not hungry."
He looked at me the way I’d looked at him after Cody, when he’d insisted his shoulder was fine, and I’d known he was lying.
Without a word, he turned and walked out.
I heard him moving around the house. A door opened, then closed. I went back to the edit, trimmed two seconds off the clip, undid it, trimmed one second, then undid that too.
Ten minutes later, Brock walked back into the kitchen wearing the Outlaw shirt.
Black with a neon-green logo across the chest, it was still creased from the package. He'd tucked it into his jeans, cinched his belt, and rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms, the way he always did.
I just stared.
"The light's good for about another hour," he said. "Got Rio saddled."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
He tipped his head toward the door. "You coming or not, Starlin'? I'm not standing here in this ugly shirt all night."
I grabbed my phone and followed him outside. The timing couldn’t have been better. The sun was dropping behind the Bighorns, throwing long shadows across the fields. The heat of the day was finally fading, and a cool breeze moved through the yard.
Rio stood at the fence, massive and still, his black coat catching the last of the light. Brock swung into the saddle, adjusted his hat, and looked down at me.
"Where do you want me?"
I lifted my phone. "Just ride along the fence line. Don’t look at the camera."
"I never look at the camera."
"I know. That’s why it works."
He rode, and I filmed.
Rio moved along the fence line, his hooves thudding softly against the dirt. Brock barely moved in the saddle, one hand loose on the reins, the mountains stretching behind him. The Outlaw logo caught the fading light at exactly the right angle.
It was the best content I'd shot since I got here.
I called him back and showed him the screen. He leaned down from the saddle to look, close enough that I noticed the sun catching on his skin, the blue of his eyes sharper up close.
"That'll work," he said.
"That'll more than work. It's perfect."
He looked down at me, and something in his expression shifted. Not a smile exactly, but something less guarded. His eyes dropped to my mouth for half a second before finding mine again.
"Thank you," I said. "Seriously."
He straightened in the saddle, his gaze moving back toward the mountains.
"Yeah, well..." He paused. "I know I made this harder than it needed to be."
The admission caught me off guard.
He didn't say anything else. He just clicked his tongue, and Rio started toward the barn.
I watched him go, my phone still tight in my hand. The knot that had followed me since the highway hadn't loosened. If anything, it had gotten worse.
Somewhere along the way, Brock had stopped feeling like just another job. I couldn't let myself forget why I was here—or that I had to leave.
Cheyenne was seven days away.