Keep it casual.
After all, that’s the name of the game, isn’t it?
“So, you figured out the Cowboy Cha Cha.”
Miles chuckles. “It only took me eighty-seven tries.”
“It could’ve been worse.” I smile up at him. “It could’ve taken ninety.”
“Always the optimist,” he says, shaking his head.
“That’s me. Just a little ray of sunshine.”
“You are. You know that, right?” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but his eyes have grown serious, no longer the bright, sparkling shade of jokes and barbs, but a darker, more somber sapphire. “You always look for the best in people, even when they don’t deserve it. And I can always count on you to make the best of a tough situation.” He pauses. “Like me tagging along on this adventure.”
“It hasn’t been so bad.” Sure, we’ve traded barbs and challenged each other at every turn, but that’s been half the fun. The prospect of continuing on alone after Santa Monica suddenly seems less appealing, but I can’t very well say that. We had a deal. No strings. “Besides, I was properly motivated by the terms of our bet.”
“Ah, yes. The bet.” Tension lines his mouth, and he closes his eyes, giving a slow nod. “Money is a great motivator.”
“It wasn’t just about the money.”
It’s the truth. Probably the truest thing I’ve ever said. But again, he doesn’t need to know that. Doesn’t need to know that I’m crazy about him or that along the way I concocted a harebrained scheme to literally fuck him out of my system.
As if that was ever going to work.
“I refuse to believe you did all this for a letter of recommendation, but either way, you haven’t won yet.” He gives me a mysterious smile—one I’ve only seen on rare occasions. Usually when he’s up to something. “I may have the winning hand up my sleeve yet.”
This late in the game, it’s a bold statement. One that rouses my curiosity, just as he intended.
I press my lips flat, but it’s useless. The question forces its way out.
“And what exactly is this winning hand?”
I can’t imagine what he’s up to. There’s nothing he could say or do at this point that would inspire me to throw the bet or even withdraw.
He smirks. “If I told you now, it would ruin the surprise.”
God forbid. “I hate surprises.”
Miles laughs, throwing his head back. “I know the feeling.”
The song ends, and we break apart.
“That’s too bad, because I’ve got one more surprise planned for this evening.”
He narrows his eyes, probably trying to decide if I’m bluffing. Unfortunately for him, I’m so not. And it’s high time we move on to the main attraction.
“Tell me,” I say, summoning all the swagger I can muster, “how do you feel about bull riding?”
Chapter Thirty-One
Miles
Bull riding?
No fucking way. Is that even legal? This is California. Not to mention, we don’t have proper training.
“I’m sorry. I must’ve heard you wrong.” It’s a reasonable assumption. The music is loud as hell. “Did you just say bull riding?”
