@RodeoRumorRoundup: Looks like fan-favorite bronc rider Nash Kimzey had a little more than just 8 seconds of excitement in Fort Worth…
Attached: a blurry-but-decent shot of me in Nash’s arms, kissing him like I meant it. My black dress. His black hat. The intimacy unmistakable.
I scroll down and the comments are already flooding in.
@CowgirlCrys: Wait. Is that Sam Stone’s sister??
@BullriderBrat: She’s cute but way too fat for someone like Nash!
@NashNation: My man moves FAST. Wasn’t he just with that barrel racer last month??
@WesternWatchdog: Wonder what Sam Stone thinks about this??
My heart thuds in my chest as my brain scrambles to process it all. I scroll faster. And then I get a text from Tish.
Tish Garcia
Girl. You’re viral. Like RODEO viral.
Also you look HOT. But also WTF.
My fingers tremble slightly as I open my texts. One from Sam sits unread.
Sam Stone
Just saw the photo. Want me to say something?
And then, like the universe isn’t done yet, another ping.
Will Flowers
What in the hell are you doing, Phern?
And suddenly, everything good about the night—the steak, the dancing, the kiss—feels like it’s spiraling into something I can’t control. Like it was never mine to hold in the first place.
I’m still staring at Will’s message, throat tight and chest burning, when Nash walks up.
“Sorry. Natalie saw the photo and was freaking out.”
I blink, looking up. His voice is calm, but there’s something guarded behind it. His eyes are softer than I expected.
He rubs the back of his neck, jaw tight. “I haven’t been photographed kissing another woman since her mother died.”
The air leaves my lungs.
“Nash,” I whisper, stepping toward him. “I’m so sorry.”
Tears sting my eyes—fast and hot and humiliating—and I hate how quickly they fall. I try to blink them away, to turn my face, but Nash is already there, pulling me in like it’s instinct.
“Hey now,” he murmurs, voice warm against my temple. “This isn’t your fault, Phern. And if you remember, I wanted to kiss you out there.”
His thumb brushes the corner of my eye. And when his lips press gently to the place where my tears touched skin, my breath stutters.
But before I can sink into that warmth—before I can exhale?—
click.
That sound cuts sharper than it should.
