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His hands.

His mouth.

The weight of him.

His hand shifts against my waist, and when it slides slowly down my side, my skin prickles.

I inhale sharply.

Royce notices.

His eyes darken with amusement.

“Well, hell,” he mutters, “you do remember.”

Heat rushes up my neck, and I glare at him.

Cocky bastard.

And somehow, that only makes him more attractive. Because apparently, arrogant bull riders are my weakness.

I haven’t been held by a man like this in a long time. Not by a man who makes me suddenly aware of every inch of my body. Someone this solid, this masculine, this distractingly sexy.

I need to get a grip.

“So,” he says, thankfully deciding to give me a break, “your little man have a name?”

I glance toward Ryder, who’s busy talking to Shelby and Ruby near the edge of the dance floor.

“Ryder.”

Royce smiles. “I like that name.”

I nod. “Yeah. So did his dad.”

Something shifts in his expression.

“His dad,” he repeats, and there’s a question buried in those two words. “Blaze Cassel?”

Of course he knows. Everyone knew.

Blaze and I had been the circuit’s golden couple for years. The princess barrel racing champion and the PBR’s up-and-coming blond Lothario. We were photographed together, interviewed together, celebrated together.

Until we weren’t.

I nod. “Yeah. Blaze.”

Royce’s jaw tightens.

He doesn’t say anything for a beat, but I can practically hear the thoughts running through his head.

“Ryder was a surprise,” I say quietly.

His gaze drops to mine.

“A beautiful surprise.”

His expression softens a bit.