The announcer’s voice booms through the speakers, hyping up the next ride.
I weave my way through the chute alley, past handlers chalking ropes and slapping riders on the back. My kit isheavy on my shoulder, stocked with stethoscopes, syringes, and antiseptic.
I ignore the way men’s eyes flick toward me—some curious, some dismissive, a few downright skeptical. I’ve learned to live with it. If I let every look knock me off balance, I’d never make it in this job.
I find a spot on the rails where I can watch Ghost Pepper’s run and flip open my chart to jot down a few last notes. A rider swings into the chute, but I barely register him.
“McCrea, go!”
The namemakes my head snap up.I had no idea he was here.
I look toward the chute just as the rider drops down, knees hugging the bull, settling onto his back in one smooth motion. In record time, he sets his rope and gets his seat. His shoulders rise and fall once, right before he nods to the latch man. Then he looks up and meets my stare. His eyes, so light-blue they almost blend into the whites, stare right back.
Beau McCrea. Legendary bull rider. The Saint of the Circuit and the man who was the subject of every girlhood crush… It’s surreal to see the object of fantasy in the flesh. I’ve seen him ride before—he was the rookie who stole the championship from my father. And if I’m honest, that might be what started the infatuation.
His ice-blue eyes slide away as fast as they found me. The chute clangs open, and the bull explodes into the arena, hide slick with sweat, muscles rolling like thunder under the glare of the spotlights. Ghost Pepper—aptly named, mean as fire—bucks hard, twisting high.
And on his back is the rider that makes my traitorous heart skip, beating a little faster.
For a moment, I’m mesmerized. Bull riding always gets me. I don’t know if it’s the danger, the sheer reckless courage, or the energy pouring off animal and Alpha alike. But when it’s good?It’s pure ballet. Time slows. The whole world shrinks to eight seconds of grit and grace.
And Beau McCrea blows most others clean out of the water.
He’s tall even at a distance, shoulders filling out his dark shirt, thighs clamped around the beast like he was born in that seat. The brim of his helmet shadows his face, but I catch a flash of a grin—wide, dangerous, devastating. The crowd’s cheer tightens into a single held breath.
Eight solid seconds stretch long enough to live a whole other life inside them. A buzzer screams. The arena erupts, the sound pressing against my skin.
The cowboy flies free, tucks into a roll, and pops back to his feet like it’s nothing. He vaults up onto the shark cage, pounding his chest three times before pointing to the stands with a wild whoop that rattles the rafters.
The Saint of the Circuit. The Golden Boy. I don’t even need to see the score to know it was technically perfect. Bull and rider made history.
The announcer’s voice booms—“Ninety-six point eight!”—and the crowd loses its mind. He grins, soaking up every decibel of their adoration. He’s magnetic, the kind of man who makes the very air bend toward him.
He jumps down from the cage, jogs toward the rail, and flashes another charming, self-satisfied smile at the fans reaching for him. Then his head turns just enough, and his eyes lock on me… for the second time.
The rest of the world blips out of existence.
His face is unfairly perfect. Scruffy, sharp—cheekbones and jaw carved too severe to be pretty, but somehow all the more devastating for it. Dark hair disheveled from being under his riding helmet. And those eyes… fierce and intent, devouring me.
Then he winks.
Just like that, my world tilts, and then he’s back to whooping at the crowd, leaving me oddly bereft without the weight of his eyes on my skin.
My Omega rears up like she’s on fire. And the proximity of him makes my mouth water. Oh yeah, my Omega side definitely wants whatever that look promised.
Fuck if my core doesn’t clench at what is arguably the most dangerously beautiful man I’ve ever laid eyes on. I force my gaze—and my lady bits—to ignore the spectacle.
Chute men slap him on the back as he jogs the fence line, bullfighters keeping Ghost Pepper busy long enough for Beau to clear out. Then the pen crew takes over, guiding the bull toward the exit gate. The chute alley narrows near where I’m positioned, just beyond the gate, a buffer between the animal’s path and the hundred hands reaching out to touch a bit of glory.
I’ve seen a thousand rides. I’m not here for a man in a hat. Even if this one just happens to be the cowboy who fueled my very first crush—and more than a few late-night fantasy sessions I’d rather not admit to.
“Fuck me,” I mutter to myself, and turn to the business of not caring. I fix my attention where it belongs: on the numbers that keep these animals safe. Breathing and blink rate. Hoof angles. The hitch of a flank that might mean soreness. Anything but him.
But too late, I realize the Saint himself is coming straight down my lane. And the way I’m wedged here, there’s no graceful way out.
Panic zips through me. I spin on my heel and head for the side exit that feeds into the barn walkway. Even the sight of the grim little row of portable outhouses looks better than colliding with Beau McCrae’s gravitational field. Dignity be damned—I’ll hide anywhere if it means avoiding that pressure system bearing down on me.
Even if my traitorous Omega is having a full-blown meltdown of want, practically throwing a party I wasn’t invited to. I can feel myself getting embarrassingly wet, and I’m definitely going to need new underwear after watching him ride.
