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He strides towards me, the sea of dust-caked boots parting for him. He's the embodiment of every rodeo fantasy I've ever had, every idea I've scrawled in my journal. A living, breathing manifestation of my romantic idealism.
I’ve dealt with heartbreakers, charmers, and dreamers, but this guy, he seems different. He holds a quiet confidence, a raw magnetism. My gaze flickers to his chest, catching sight of the worn leather vest boasting several championship badges. A champion bronc rider.
I swallow hard, mentally chiding myself. Speak, Iris. Speak.
He’s inches from me now, his grin warm and inviting. His voice, when he speaks, is rich as dark chocolate, “Heard a lot about you, Iris.”
Stammering over my words, I manage to blurt out a rather eloquent, “Y-you have?”
He chuckles, a throaty sound that sends tingles down my spine. I notice the rough edge of his laughter, an echo of the rodeo’s unforgiving brutality. It intrigues me, this bronc rider who carries his scars with a lopsided grin and a casual shrug.
An intoxicating blend of exhilaration and terror churns in my gut. This isn't the fleeting attraction I've felt before. No, this is a heady mixture of admiration and desire, of nervous energy that threatens to spill over.
There's something about him that calls to the wild spirit in me, a chord struck deep in the core of my being. My world, always so fast and tumultuous, seems to slow in his presence. This moment, it's everything my romantic heart has ever yearned for, and it scares me more than any barrel race ever could.
Yet, amidst the fear, a spark of courage ignites. The same courage that drives me to risk life and limb on a thousand-pound animal. The courage to chase down dreams, and heartache, and this bronc rider with midnight eyes.
Because, when it comes down to it, I'm a cowgirl at heart, and cowgirls don't back down. We take the bull by the horns, or in this case, the bronc rider by the hand. We throw caution to the wind and hold on tight for the wild ride that awaits.
So, taking a deep breath, I muster up a smile, extend my hand, and say, "Well, it's nice to finally meet ya, cowboy."
CHAPTER THREE
We find ourselves sprawled on the sun-warmed bleachers, the echoes of the rodeo quieting in the distance. The stables outside the arena are all but empty, save a few other riders fixin’ to leave out for the next stop. Those that made it to the championship rounds anyway.
“What’s your next ride?” I ask him. Curious if we are headed in the same direction.
“I’m following the PBR Circuit, gotta take whatever they give me.” He shrugs it off.
“I wish I had sponsors like y’all do. Seems the boys club is something I’ll never break into just barrel racin’.”
“It wouldn’t be rodeo without all of us, babe. We need you pretty ladies to offset all the ugly.” That lopsided grin shines all the way to his soulful eyes.
He's a charmer, this bronc rider, with his quick wit and easy smile. But beneath the charm, there's something deeper. A shared understanding, a kindred spirit. A passion for the rodeo that runs as deep and wild as my own.
“I admire your spirit, Iris,” he murmurs, a newfound respect burning in his eyes, “Barrel racing ain’t easy. It takes grit.”
The sincerity in his voice makes my heart flutter. I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, my cheeks heating. "It's all in the thrill of the chase, I guess. You bronc riders aren't any different."
A soft chuckle ripples from him. "Shit. You ain’t lyin’. We’re all about as crazy as tits on a bull though."
As the sun dips behind the horizon, casting an orange glow over the bleachers, I see a different side to him. Behind the confident bronc rider facade, there’s a vulnerability, an openness that resonates within me.
“You really like traveling all the time? I mean, it’s about as lonesome as lonesome gets.”
I watch as he rubs the back of his neck with his calloused hand. A sense of nervousness seeming to wash over him.
“Shoot babe, I really aint ever alone, the guys are always around, and the buckle bunnies are plenty to keep me goin’.” His honesty is refreshing.
His experiences seem to echo my own. Still even with the partying and the meaning less sex, I just don’t have that sense of connection I crave.
A hushed silence falls over us. The weight of his words hangs in the cooling air. Our gazes lock. In his eyes, I see my own reflection, a mirror image of our shared hopes and fears, of the passion that propels us into the dust and danger, time and time again.
My hand finds its way to his. His fingers curl around mine, a silent promise hanging between us. We're two sides of the same coin, him and I. Two souls bound by our love for the rodeo, by our shared dreams and our shared scars.
In the silence, I realize, I'm not just falling for a bronc rider. I'm falling for a kindred spirit, a man who understands the heartbeat of the rodeo, the call of the wild, the thrill of the ride. Maybe a man that I can share myself with, more than just the one time. More than just a one time thing.
And as his thumb traces circles on my hand, as the sun dips lower, painting the sky with hues of pink and purple, I'm not scared anymore. This connection, as powerful as it is unexpected, doesn't frighten me. It emboldens me.
