Page 18 of September’s Cowboy Travis

“You yelled.”

“I did not.”

His eyebrows went up.

“The crowd was loud.”

“I heard you.”

“You were wrestling a steer.”

“Still heard you.”

A smile tried to escape. His got bigger when he noticed.

“Are you convinced yet?”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“Don't ruin it.”

He laughed and backed toward the door. “I'll take maybe.”

I shook my head and turned back to the invoices spread across my desk.

By early evening, the main events had ended, and the crowd had thinned. Arena lights came on as the sun dropped, and music drifted from the beer garden while volunteers cleaned up around the grounds.

I closed my laptop a little after eight and stepped outside.

Travis leaned against the railing across from the office with two bottles of water.

“Are you stalking me now?” I asked.

“I prefer the term waiting.”

“For?”

He handed me a bottle. “You're off the clock.”

“According to who?”

“Me.”

“You have no authority over my schedule.”

“Never stopped me before.”

I twisted off the cap. “That's not the argument you think it is.”

He started walking, and I followed him anyway.

The grounds felt different after dark, quieter without the families and daytime crowds. We walked behind the grandstands until the music faded enough to hear each other without shouting.

For the first time since I'd arrived, Travis and I weren't together because of the audit. I wasn't about to ask what that made this.

“Can I ask you something?” I started.