“I give her six weeks,” Greta said.
Bear followed her gaze. “For what?”
“Before she gives in and goes on a date with him.”
He was quiet for a beat, watching Mariah package up a small arrangement for the customer. Then he shook his head. “Six months. Minimum.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Mariah doesn’t strike me as someone who gives in easily.”
“X doesn’t strike me as someone who gives up.”
“Exactly.” Bear crossed his arms. “Six months. She’ll make him work for it.”
Greta looked at him, then at Mariah, then back at Bear. “You want to bet on it?”
“Sure.”
“Twenty bucks?”
“Done.”
She held out her hand, and he took it, his palm warm and rough against hers, and they shook on it. His hand was so big hers disappeared into it, and when they should have let go, they didn’t. They just stood there in the middle of the floral tent with their hands clasped, the Edison bulbs throwing warm light over everything, the smell of cut flowers thick in the air.
Greta looked down at their joined hands, then up at Bear’s face. He was watching her again. Same expression as before. She didn’t know what to do with it. Didn’t know what to do with the way her chest felt too full, with the way the laughter had left her feeling scraped clean and raw and more alive than she’d felt in weeks.
She squeezed his hand once and let go.
The grandstand lights kicked on as they climbed the bleachers, bright white against the sky behind the mountains, which was fading from deep orange to purple in bands. The arena below was a perfect oval of churned dirt, the smell of it rising in the warm air along with the scent of horses and cattle. The PA crackled with the announcer’s voice calling the bareback order, numbers, and names that meant nothing to Greta but got reactions from the crowd around them.
Logan was already there, two rows ahead and to the left, sitting beside River like he’d been doing it for years instead of weeks. River was leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, talking fast and gesturing at the chutes, and Logan was listening with his arms crossed and his chin down, only half paying attention but not minding.
Greta dropped into a seat in the middle of the row. Bear settled beside her, the bleacher creaking under his weight, and the warmth of him ran all down her left side.
Two rows ahead, River was still talking, his hands moving through the air in a pattern that probably made sense if you knew what he was explaining. Logan glanced over his shoulder once, saw Greta and Bear, and nodded before turning back.
The arena filled with the sound of hooves on packed dirt, someone moving stock from one pen to another. The announcer’s voice cut through the noise. “Ladies and gentlemen, we’ve got a great lineup for you tonight. First up in the bareback bronc, we’ve got Tyler Hutchins on Little Miss Sunshine…”
Greta leaned back against the bleacher behind her and let the noise wash over her. The crowd was loud — talking, laughing, the low buzz of people waiting for something to start. She could smell popcorn from somewhere behind them, and beer, and the faint smoke-tang of someone grilling meat in the vendor row. The lights over the arena made everything below them look sharp and too-bright, shadows falling hard across the dirt.
Bear shifted beside her, his arm coming to rest along the back of the bleacher behind her shoulders. Not touching her. Just there. She leaned into it without deciding to.
The first few rides were fine. Competent. Got polite applause, but didn’t make anyone stand up.
Greta glanced two rows down to check on Logan.
He wasn’t there.
She sat up straighter and scanned the bleachers. River was still in his seat, leaning back now with his hat tipped over his eyes between rides. Logan’s spot beside him was empty.
“Bear.”
“I see him.”
She followed his line of sight down past the bleachers to the chain-link fence that ran along the back of the concession area. Logan was leaning against it with one shoulder, his ball cap pulled low, talking to two girls Greta didn’t recognize. One of them was laughing at something he’d just said. The other was looking up at him through her lashes in a way that even Greta—who had not been fifteen in a long time—could read from a hundred yards out.
“He’s flirting,” Bear said. It came out flat.
