Will’s lips curve, slow and smug. “Good thing I know people.”
Of course he does. He always does.
He drives up to the venue where the event is being held. The parking lot is already buzzing when we get out. Trucks with racks of saddles and sponsor decals line the gravel lot. Cowboys in sweat-darkened hats lean against trailers, laughing, stretching, tapping out nervous rhythms on their thighs with calloused fingers. Somewhere, a speaker crackles with announcements and a woman’s voice saying “fifteen minutes to chute one.”
It smells like dirt, leather, and anticipation. I inhale it like oxygen. This is why I came.
I flash my media badge to the security guard at the gate and stride past like I belong, which I do. The sun’s lower now, casting long shadows across the dry ground as the arena buzzes with energy and dust.
But when I glance over my shoulder, any hope of shaking Will evaporates.
Not only is he being handed a pass like he owns the place, but people areflockingto him. Grinning, slapping his back, shaking his hand like he’s some kind of damn rodeo royalty. He soaks it in, of course. And then his gaze locks with mine.
And he smirks.
I whip back around and keep walking, my boots crunching against the dirt. With any luck, I’ll disappear into the crowd before he decides to charm his way into my orbit again.
My notepad is tucked tight under my arm, voice recorder clipped to my belt, brain already switching gears. I’ve got interviews to snag, quotes to chase, and a story to tell that doesn’t include Will and his perfect damn smirk.
The moment I step into the stands, I canfeelit. The electric charge in the air. The kind of buzz that lives only in places where pain and glory collide.
Bronc riders warm up near the chutes, adjusting their rigging, stretching out their legs. Some are stone-faced.Others are talking shit and grinning like they’ve already won. Everyone’s got tape on something. Wrists, knees, fingers, pride.
I find the Cowboy Channel rep near the check-in tent, a woman named Dakota who recognizes me immediately.
“Phern Stone,” she says with a smile. “Heard you were coming.”
“Happy to be here,” I say, and I mean it.
She hands me a list of rider bios, set times, and interview slots. “You’ve got a good lineup. Couple big names, a few rookies. You’ll like ’em.”
“Perfect.”
By the time the first rider nods for the gate and the bronc explodes out into the arena, I’ve already filled two pages of notes. Every eight-second ride feels like a story waiting to be told. Every crash, every fist pump, every cowboy’s quiet walk back behind the chutes—it all matters.
And the best part, I don’t see Will once. Okay, that’s a lie. I see him at least three times, but he doesn’t try to come over and talk.
Hours later when the dust has settled and the crowd’s long gone and the sky’s bleeding orange across the horizon do I finally sit still. I’m perched on the tailgate of a trailer, boots dusty, sweat drying on the back of my neck. A half-empty bottle of water dangles from my fingers, and for the first time in weeks, pride is blooming in my chest instead of pressure.
I’m looking at my notes when a shadow cuts across my lap. I blink up, shielding my eyes from the sinking sun.
And stop breathing.
“Evening, ma’am,” the man says, voice low and easy as a country song. “I’m told I have an interview with you.”
Oh my God. I knew I had an interview lined up with Nash Kimzey—theNash Kimzey. But no one told me he looked like this in person. Up close, he’s tall and broad-shouldered withsun-warmed skin, a hat worn low over sharp blue eyes, and that kind of roguish smile that says he knows exactly how dangerous he is.
My brain blanks for a beat too long.
I scramble to set my phone down, thumb brushing Will’s message off-screen.
“Right. Yes. You do.” I clear my throat and smile, heat rising to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the Texas sun. “Phern Stone. I’ll be your journalist this evening.”
He chuckles, eyes crinkling at the corners. “Well then, Phern Stone, hit me with your best questions.”
And just like that, I remember who I am. I’m not the girl waiting by the window. I’m the one who asks the questions. Who tells the stories, chases the moments, and lives her own damn life. I flip the page in my notebook. Smile. And begin.
Nash is charming in that effortless, steady-handed way. No push, no ego, just this grounded calm that makes it easy to breathe around him. He answers every question like he’s thought about it first, but never once makes me feel like he’s putting on a show. And damn it, he’s funny. He makes me laugh. Real laughs, too.
