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“Oh, thank God,” Paul Grisham, the event coordinator for the Houston Rodeo, said. “I need you.”
I looked at my watch.
“What for?” I asked.
“Shit’s hit the fan. Everyone is sick. Like literally everyone. I need you,” he begged.
I ran a hand through my sweaty hair and then cursed when I realized my hat was missing.
I looked around for it as I said, “No can do. I don’t have anywhere to stay when I go down there, and I’m saving for a house.”
“Your brother will be here,” he suggested.
“My brother has a new girl and he won’t want to share his trailer with me,” I disagreed. “Sorry.”
“Your brother will share his trailer with you despite that and you know he will,” Paul argued.
“Actually,” I said. “My brother is the reason I’m saving for a new house. And he won’t. I’m not even going to ask. We’re no longer on speaking terms.”
Waylynn held my hat out to me and I slipped it back on my head, then went back to trying to corral the horse.
“Swear to God, I’ll find you something. Anything. And I’ll pay you double,” Paul pleaded.
The kid spooked the horse, and unfortunately for the horse, she had nowhere to go but in the trailer.
Which she did moments later.
“Yes!” I cried.
“Excellent,” Paul said. “I’ll see you when you get here.”
Then he was gone, and I was left staring at the closed horse trailer with annoyance.
“So… we’re going to Houston?” she asked.
“We’re?” I prodded.
She nodded once. “We’re.”
***
Waylynn
It was a half hour later when I walked into the classroom with my hot, sweaty cowboy companion by my side.
He broke off and hauled ass down the steps toward the front of the room, leaving me to take a back seat to watch the festivities.
“Sorry I’m late,” he apologized to the thirty people filling the room. “I had to rescue a stubborn horse.”
There were murmurs of ‘it’s okay’ and ‘aw that sucks’ all the way around the room.
Darby didn’t waste time getting into the meat of the class, starting off with explaining what they would all be doing this semester. Explaining the syllabus. And also informing them what they’d need for class.
All the while he spoke, I admired him.
As well as about ten other ladies that I could see openly ogling him.
The bitches.
They weren’t shy about it, either. They watched him with open lust and curiosity, not bothering to hide their feelings whatsoever.
I quickly forgot about the women when Darby started to climb the stairs between the desks, handing out his course map as well as a supply list.
I watched his muscular forearms as he handed out one sheet from each stack to each row, and then his thighs that were encased in jeans so tight that they should be illegal.
I couldn’t wait to see him this weekend in his chaps.
He wore them every time he fought the bulls in the rodeos. I wasn’t sure why, because most bullfighters just wore sturdy pants and shirts, but Darby never missed a chance to wear the chaps.
And all of the ladies loved it when he did.
“Okay, are there any questions?” Darby asked, sounding tired.
One brave woman in the front of the class raised her hand.
Giggling, she asked, “Is it against school policy for you to date students?”
I snorted, causing Darby’s eyes to catch mine.
“Sorry, class,” he drawled. “I’m already taken.”
He jerked his chin in my direction, causing everyone to move their eyes toward me.
All of the girls in the class groaned.
Only after everyone was gone, and I received several glares from the ladies, did I turn to Darby.
“What the hell was that?” I asked curiously. “You just totally used me.”
Darby shrugged. “I can’t deal with them doing that all semester. I’m gonna have to go buy one of those fake silicone rings or something. Jesus Christ.”
I snorted and gestured to the cowboy hat.
“Maybe if you didn’t dress like someone out of their erotic romance novels, they wouldn’t act like that,” I told him.
He frowned.
“What?”
I pointed at his pants and his hat. His boots then his dirty, sweaty, stained t-shirt.
“You dress like a hot cowboy, you get treated like a hot cowboy,” I pointed out.
He scoffed. “Waylynn, you’re fucking nuts. Let’s go.”
We did, and I followed him out.
“Look at all these women staring at you,” I observed. “It’s the cowboy look, you know.”
He glared down at me, his cowboy hat shading most of his eyes from my view.
“You’re fucking nuts,” he said.
“You already said that,” I told him. “Give me your hat.”
He rolled his eyes but did as I said, handing over the hat.
I put both of my arms behind my back and held onto his hat as not to draw attention to it.
And the number of women looking his way drastically changed.
Sure, he still got looks, but the hat was distinctive, drawing the eye.
Not many men wore cowboy hats around anymore, so when one did, it caused people to look.
