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"You okay?" he asks.

I blink. "Yeah."

His eyes narrow slightly. "You're thinkin' again."

I point my toothbrush at him. "Mind your business."

He laughs. "Impossible."

The sound follows me all the way back to the bedroom while we finish getting ready, and by the time we start throwing a few things into duffelbags, the house is fully awake.

Which means Tripp is talking.

Loudly.

Some things in life are unavoidable.

When I get downstairs to grab a Full Throttle from the fridge, the other two are in full packing mode. The rodeo is only a few days away, which means the house has officially entered chaos.

There’s gear everywhere, bags sitting out and open, lists are taped to the fridge half crossed out.

I take my drink and head to the living room, sitting cross-legged on the floor, surrounded by clothes, while Tripp sprawls across the couch behind me, offering completely unhelpful commentary.

"Take the black one."

I hold up a shirt. "This black one?"

"No."

I grab another. "This black one?"

"No."

I stare at him. "Do you know how many black shirts I own?"

"Not enough."

"Helpful."

"I try."

Clint walks through carrying one of the gear bags, and glances toward the pile.

"You still packin'?"

"The commentary from the peanut gallery has slowed things down."

Tripp points at me. "She's overthinking."

"I'm not overthinking."

Both men look at me and I sigh. "Okay! I'm definitely overthinking."

Clint's mouth twitches.

I toss another shirt into the suitcase. "What exactly am I packing for anyway?"

"A rodeo."