“Sounds like you’ve got it all figured out,” he says. But there’s no judgment in his voice.
Just disappointment. And maybe a hint of something else I can’t name.
“I don’t,” I admit. “But staying here, in this limbo? It’s not the answer.”
He nods once, slow. Then looks at the half-built table between us.
“Well,” he says, “good thing this isn’t permanent either.”
We finish the table in silence. Our knees still touching. Our hands still brushing. But it doesn’t feel like before.
It feels like something’s breaking beneath the surface and I don’t know how to stop it.
4
The rest of the week flies by as I juggle settling into my new life while still managing pieces of my old one. By Saturday, I’m actually excited to head back out to Liam’s. Watching the green bull riders practice has always been fun, but this time I’ve got a purpose. I get to interview them. And suddenly, it all feels a little more real.
It’s warm out, so I slip into a pair of denim shorts, my scuffed tan boots, and a faded T-shirt printed with a cowgirl yellinggiddy up, sluts. Appropriate, considering the energy I’m channeling.
After grabbing my bag, phone, and keys, I head out.
There are at least a dozen trucks parked in front of the barn but the one I spot first ishis.
Will’s leaning against the fence beside Liam, talking casually, and, damn, he looks good. Tight jeans. Dusty boots. A black T-shirt stretched just right across his chest. And that damn tan cowboy hat. The only thing missing is the cigar.
“Hey,” I greet them, keeping it casual even as my pulse picks up.
Liam turns toward me. “Ready to get to work?”
“Yeah.” I glance around. “Think any of them will be willing to talk to me?”
“Chat?” Will echoes, one brow raised.
“Phern’s starting some kind of blog,” Liam cuts in, “and wants to interview the greenhorns.”
I snort. “It’s not a blog. I’m writing articles. Real ones. With actual structure.”
Liam just grins and points across the lot. “You went to school with Trey, right?”
I follow his gesture and spot a familiar face.
“I did,” I say, already walking. “Perfect. Thanks.”
Trey’s face lights up when he sees me. “Phern Stone. Look at you. How the hell have you been?”
“Good. You?”
“Better now that I’m back in a place where people have common sense.” He gestures to the arena. “Even if that includes voluntarily getting thrown off bulls.”
I grin. “So you’re giving it a real shot?”
“I am. It’s in my blood. I’ve fought it long enough.”
“Same here,” I say. “That’s why I came over. I’m writing a piece on the festival and want to interview a few riders. You good with that?”
“Sure thing.”
I pull out my notepad and start running through my questions. Trey answers easily, comfortably, and behind us, I hear the commotion of the first rider entering the arena.
