Trey chuckles. “Damn. Ol’ Kevin didn’t last long.”
“Not surprised. He spends more time at Will’s bar than on a bull.”
We share a laugh.
By the time the third rider is bucked, I’m finished with all my questions.
Trey’s eyes go wide as he looks over my shoulder. Before I can turn around, something soft and worn is gently pressed down over my head.
“Hold this for me, sugar,” Will says, voice low and rough as leather. “I need to show these boys how it’s done.”
My brain stutters.
Hishat. Onmyhead.In public. And he called mesugar. Not kiddo.
Heat rushes to my cheeks, crawling up the back of my neck.
“Sure,” I manage, voice barely above a whisper.
But he’s already walking away, heading toward the pen with that easy, powerful stride that draws eyes whether he wants it to or not.
Trey whistles low beside me. “Damn. Didn’t know you two were a thing.”
I blink. “We’re not. He’s just Sam’s best friend.”
Trey gives me a look that sayssure, Jan.
Needing a distraction, I say, “Come on. Let’s grab a good spot to watch.”
But Will’s hat is still sitting heavy on my head, and I feel like I’m getting a ton of looks.
Will climbs the fence like he’s done it a hundred times—which he has—and swings one leg over with the kind of ease that makes it real hard to pretend I’m not watching. Harder still to pretend I’m not wearing his hat.
The other riders take notice when he steps into the arena. A couple nod, others grin nervously. Because Will Flowers might not be active on the circuit anymore, but his name still holds weight out here.
He goes to the chute where one of Bullet’s offsprings is raring to go. He adjusts the grip on the rope, settles in like it’s muscle memory and maybe it is.
Then the gate swings open.
The bull explodes forward, all raw power and chaos, and Will moves with it like they’re fused together. Like every twist, every buck is something his body already knows. He’s all grit and instinct—lean muscle and absolute control. It’s not just riding. It’s poetry.
Around me, people are shouting, cheering, but I barely register the noise. My eyes are locked on him. God, he lookssogood.
So good that I feel a hard throb right between my legs.
Eight seconds flash by in a blur.
When the buzzer sounds and he finally dismounts, the crowd lets out a wave of whoops and claps, and someone smacks the metal rail beside me making me jump a little.
Will jogs toward the fence, brushing dust from his jeans, that damn T-shirt clinging to his chest now damp with sweat. His eyes scan the crowd until they find mine.
The second our gazes lock, the air in my lungs turns heavy. He doesn’t look away. Not right away. Not like before. There’s a flicker of something in his eyes—heat, maybe. Challenge. Like he knows exactly what he just did to me and isn’t even sorry about it. And then he reaches me.
His hand comes up, easy and unhurried, and he plucks the hat off my head.
His fingers brush my temple. Slow. Deliberate.
“Thanks, sugar,” he murmurs.
