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I arched my brow and laughed. “Another cheesy line? No. I don’t.”
“So why are you here, then? Looking for a little excitement?” His words dripped with suggestive undertones. This man was a cocky flirt. Assuming. Bold. Presumptuous.
“I don’t know,” I confessed, my voice quivering. “I found a rodeo flier and a note in my sister’s room. She’s young and naïve, and this place . . .” I hesitated, glancing around the chaotic venue.
“And this place is a shit hole,” he finished for me with a teasing smirk.
“That’s definitely one way of putting it.”
He chuckled again, low and deep, and I couldn’t help but be affected by the sound. It was both thrilling and unnerving to be this close to him, to feel the heat emanating from his body and the intensity of his gaze.
I could tell that Declan was used to making women fall to their knees. But there was also something unguarded about him, a raw and unfiltered quality that was captivating.
“Is your sister a Devils groupie?” he asked.
I shook my head. “An aspiring rider.”
His brows shot up in surprise. “I think I heard someone say there was a woman riding tonight. If you want to find her, check by the chutes. Though I suggest you stay away from there. The Devils don’t like people snooping around.”
“Thanks for the tip,” I said, trying to keep my voice steady.
He continued. “And maybe after you play the hero and drag your sister away, you’ll let me buy you a drink.”
I couldn’t help the breathy laugh that escaped me. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Fun things are rarely good ideas.”
Before I could come up with a response, a horn blast roared through the air, marking the start of the next ride. His eyes stayed locked on mine, that smirk still playing on his lips.
“I’ll be seeing you, Clover,” he drawled, winking at me and striding off into the crowd toward the roaring arena.
As he disappeared into the mass of bodies, I had to shake myself. I wasn’t here for heart-stopping cowboys. I was here for my sister.
I was seized by a sudden and overwhelming nostalgia. Memories hit me like a punch as I breathed in the rodeo air.
There was Dad and Avery and me, chasing the rodeo trail, my father, a fearless contender, and Avery, a starry-eyed spectator eager to carve out her place in the rodeo world.
Avery had her heart engraved with the desire to claim her fame. To take her spot in the arena and command respect from those who lived and breathed rodeo. But that glittering lure of adrenaline and notoriety had stolen our father from us four years ago, and that same ambition had led Avery here, today.
The roar of the audience reverberated in my chest as the first wave of riders retreated, tipping their hats and waving in a showy display of false modesty. I squinted against the bright floodlights, searching the sea of faces for my sister.
I knew Avery wanted a sister who could cheer her on and support her dreams. But each stomp of the hooves, every triumphant ride, only conjured sorrow in me.
For Avery, bull riding was an intoxicating adrenaline rush. For me, it was a chamber of grief.
I would drag her away from this dangerous obsession, even if it meant hauling her back home kicking and screaming.
“Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for a treat tonight. He’s the wildfire of the rodeo world, gathering praise wherever he roams,” came the announcer’s voice, resonating through the arena. “Let’s hear it for Declan Wilder!”
The response was instantaneous. Women shot up from their seats, their laughter carrying through the cheers, whistles, and applause.
As Declan stepped out and tipped his hat, the crowd swelled into a roar. His face was an unreadable mask, his gaze icy and methodical, gliding over the audience and arena.
Declan Wilder was a spectacle. The tight white shirt he wore did little to contain his broad shoulders and chiseled chest. His jeans, rustic and well-worn, clung to his muscular thighs. He was the epitome of rugged elegance, the rough, almost raw appeal of his attire colliding with his composed movements.
Declan’s stance mirrored the creature’s wild soul. Under his shirt, muscles flexed as he held the rope, his arms showcasing their strength. He was tension personified, a predator poised for a lethal strike.
An impish smirk curled his lips before he turned back toward the chute. In that moment, time seemed suspended, held hostage by his charisma.
