I roll my eyes, tug open the rear door, and slide into the backseat with a huff.
Mostofthedriveis quiet, the radio humming a soft mix of old and new country songs. Emmett rolled all the windows down, so my hair’s a windblown mess—but the warm air feels good against my freshly tanned skin. One of the few perks of working outside.
The tan lines suck, but that’s kind of unavoidable. I doubt Heath would appreciate me stocking the hayloft or filling water troughs in a little pink bikini.
My mind drifts—just for a second—to the kind of reaction I might get if Wesley or Emmett ever saw me like that. And right then, my eyes catch Wesley’s in the rearview mirror.
Heat floods my cheeks.
It feels like he can see the exact thought in my head—especially when a small smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth.
I snap my gaze back to the window, pretending to admire the view and trying my best to look unfazed.
Wearrivedlaterthanthey wanted, so the guys had to head straight to the registration booth and “prepare” to ride. I had no idea there was a process for something this reckless.
Not that I ever gave it much thought—but I figured they just hop on the back of the angry animal and hope for the best.
Turns out, Emmett, Wesley, and Landon actually train for this. Balance. Leg strength. Upper-body control.
I haven’t seen them ride yet, but judging by the way they toss hay bales and feed sacks like it’s nothing, I’d say the training’s paying off.
And, okay—fine. I’ve caught glimpses of them shirtless a few times. Only in passing. But enough to know they look like something Michelangelo would’ve been proud of. Emmett has those effortless golden-boy muscles, like he doesn’t even have to try; Wesley’s strong and intense. Every movement is calculated and somehow maddeningly magnetic—I shouldn’t even be noticing. And Landon…well, Emmett wasn’t kidding.Redwoods for legs.
Lydia and I have been wandering the fairgrounds for a while, exploring before the main events start.
There’s a little petting zoo set up for the kids, but that didn’t stop us from crouching down to coo over the baby goats. One tried to chew the fringe on her shorts and we both were laughing so hard, we were crying.
According to Lydia, you haven’t really“popped your rodeo cherry”until you’ve had one of the turkey legs. I didn’t love that phrasing, but I’ve learned better than to argue with her. So we each got one—giant, greasy, and wrapped in foil—and split a funnel cake. Powdered sugar clings to our fingers as we pick at it while walking back to the stands.
We’re halfway to our seats when we pass a vendor booth covered in graphic tees, each one gaudier than the last.
Lydia stops short, letting out a squeal as she holds up a cropped white shirt like it’s a prize.
It’s simple—blocky navy letters across the front that say
SAVE A HORSE, RIDE A COWBOY.
“How is it evenpossibleI don’t already own this shirt? I swear, every buckle bunny has one.”
I shrug, unsure what a buckle bunny is, and continue flipping through the rest of the rack, pausing when one catches my eye.It’s white too, but shorter, snugger, with a phrase printed in faded red
THIS IS, IN FACT, MY FIRST RODEO.
Lydia leans over my shoulder and gasps. “Oh. My. God. You absolutelyhaveto get that.”
“It’s a little obvious, don’t you think?”
“Nope. It’s perfect. You’re getting it. Actually”—she snatches it off the hanger—“I’m getting it for you. My treat.”
Before I can protest, she’s already bouncing over to the woman running the booth and handing her cash. A second later, she grabs my hand and pulls me through the crowd, weaving us through people and between the tented booths. She makes a sharp turn and ducks between two booths, shoving the shirt into my hands.
“Okay. Hurry up and put yours on. I want to surprise the guys after they ride.”
She whips off her black tank top with zero hesitation, leaving her in a sheer bralette.
My eyes go wide.
“Lydia!” I whisper-shout, scanning the gaps in the tent wall. “Someone couldseeyou!”
