I shoot him a grim smile as I stand and wipe my clammy palms off on my jeans. My heart thuds heavily in my chest, and I chuckle at myself as I stride toward the door.
It would seem that I have finally found something to do in my life that makes me uncomfortable.
My fingers wrap around the door handle, and my thumb presses on the top lever to pull the door open to whatever this experience might bring me.
Mockery for certain, but maybe fun. Maybe something fresh and exciting. Maybe…
Julia Silva.
All the air in my lungs vanishes as I stare down into the dark irises of a woman I haven’t laid eyes on in over two years. Not since she left my suite without a single word. I didn’t need a thank-you note or anything, but still, it had stung.
The last time I saw her, she’d looked at me with apprehension—possibly even disgust—and today? Today she is looking at me like she’d rather be anywhere but here.
I open my mouth to say something, but words fail me. Because I wasn’t expectingher. Not in a million years.
Inky, straight curtains of hair frame her face, aviator sunglasses perch on top of her head. She gives me a pinched smile, and those big brown eyes are borderline apologetic. Her fingers tangle together near the waistband of her wide-leg jeans, a navy-and-white-striped button-down tucked neatly inside.
I find myself staring at the pink polish on her toenails peeping out of her sandals. It’s the same pink they were that night on the cruise. I remember it vividly. I’d been fucking panicked when her legs went limp. Her feet—with painted pink toes—bobbed lifelessly as I carried her to my room.
“Hey,” she ventures cautiously, most likely wondering why the fuck I’m staring at her feet like I have some sort of fetish.
My head snaps up to cover for getting lost in thought, and I meet her gaze, which searches my face for a reaction.
I work hard to keep my features blank, clamping my molars together to keep from letting my jaw hang open.
The truth is, I don’t know how to react to her. I’m caught off guard—something that doesn’t happen to me often. We may have had a run-in, but that was two years ago and in the wake of that, we both seem to have functioned as though nothing happened at all—and that’s fine by me. Because I know she’s not her brother, but fuck does she look like him.
And I hate Theo Silva’s stupid, happy face.
That smug little prick kicked my ass at finals this year. A win that has done nothing but add to the friction of our rivalry. A win that had my biological dad, Carl, berating me like I’d lost on purpose just to embarrass him personally.
I left the WBRF finals with a bigger chip on my shoulder than ever. Ready to show up next year and prove that you don’t need to be sport royalty or a bull-riding nepo baby to make a legacy for yourself.
“What the hell are you doing here?” I finally ask, because I can’t for the life of me figure out why Julia would come around to our place. We live on opposite sides of the valley and move in very different circles.
“We have a meeting.” Her voice crescendos at the end of the sentence as though she’s asking me a question. The bridge of her nose wrinkles. And it takes me a beat to put it all together as I stand here staring.
“You’rethe location manager?”
She blows out an audible breath. “Yeah, trust me, I wasn’t expecting you to be the face ofRomance Rancheither.”
I give her my best bland look, trying not to let the surging dread within me show. I thought I’d have until the show aired next year to hide from the embarrassment of this gig.
But now I have to contend with knowing Julia is surely going to tell Theo, who is surely going to tell his shitty best friend, Rhett Eaton, and they are both going to take a whole lot of pleasure in mocking me when the season starts up again. Our rivalry has turned downright hostile over the last couple of years, and as much as I secretly get off on needling them, I do not want to give them more ammo to come after me with than they already have.
And this? This is shit-talking gold.
My plan is for next season to be my last—if I can make it work. I want to win the whole thing and go out with a bang. Retire with a body and brain that aren’t totally ruined by hitting the dirt too many times.
Just once. I don’t need endless wins, but I want to be able to call myself a WBRF champion.
This show will airafterthat. So I don’t have to deal with the guys on the circuit mocking me mercilessly.
I’ll pretend to find true love for the cameras, and then I’ll dump the winning girl and disappear into a peaceful,hardworking life here in Emerald Lake. No competitors, or media, or Carl, who is constantly on my ass about winning just because he never could.
“Are you going to let me in?”
“No,” I mutter, before stepping out toward her. I come close enough that she’s forced to step back, and I gently shut the door behind myself.
