"Sixteen-nine! Winnie, that's a personal record!"
"What?!" I slid off Bandit, adrenaline singing through my veins. "You're lying."
"Check the timer!" She held up her phone, the number glowing: 16.9. "That's regional-worthy, girl. Hell, that's state-worthy. You're ready."
I wanted to scream, to cry, to do something with the explosive joy bubbling up. Instead, I threw my arms around Bandit's neck, burying my face in his mane. "Good boy. Best boy."
We cooled the horses down together, talking technique and minor adjustments, but my mind was already racing ahead. Sixteen-nine. If I could replicate that at regionals, I'd place. Maybe even podium. For the first time in months, the weight of the ranch, of Nana's shadow, felt a little lighter. Like I was finally stepping into my own rhythm instead of chasing someone else's.
And under that high, the memory of last night hummed like a low electric current.
The article. The comments. The way Beau had looked like the world was ending while I skimmed lines aboutranch employeesandpower dynamicsand thought,of course this is what they’d say.The way he'd choked out that his dad was dragging him back to Dallas in two weeks. The way he’d watched me like I was going to shatter.
He was scared enough for the both of us.
So I’d decided something, somewhere between my third beer and the kiss I left on his cheek before bed: Dallas wasn’t going to run my life. The internet wasn’t either. If I was going to get my heart broken, it’d be on my terms.
By the time I made it back to the house, sweaty and exhilarated, it was past eight. Pops was in the kitchen, humming to himself over the coffee pot, but the upstairs was quiet. Beau’s door was still closed.
Board meeting at eight a.m., he'd said last night. Smile for the camera, say we’re just friends, come home early like a good little heir.
showered quick, scalding water chasing off the arena dust, but it didn't wash away the buzz. If anything, the heat just sank into my bones, mixing with the adrenaline until my skin felt too tight for my body. I caughtmy reflection in the fogged mirror—flushed cheeks, wild wet curls, nipples hard against the sudden cool air.
I looked like trouble.
Wrapped in a white towel that barely covered the essentials, water dripping down my spine, I paused outside his door.
He’d been honest with me last night. Finally. Panic and all. Now it was my turn to be very, very clear.
I didn't knock. I pounded. "Beau. Open up."
Silence. Then a rustle.
"Beau Sterling, open the damn door."
A muffled groan, the heavy thud of footsteps, and the lock clicked. The door cracked open, and he appeared.
He was shirtless. He was wearing grey sweatpants slung obscenely low on his hips, the V-lines of his jagged hipbones visible. And he looked like absolute wreckage.
Hair a disaster, eyes dark and heavy-lidded, jaw shadowed with stubble. He looked beautiful, miserable, and visibly hungover from life. But the second his eyes landed on me, the exhaustion vanished.
His gaze dropped. It didn't just look; it devoured. It traced the damp curve of my collarbone, the single bead of water sliding into the valley of my cleavage, the way the terrycloth clung to my wet hips. His throat worked, the Adam's apple bobbing hard.
And then my eyes went down.
The grey sweatpants left nothing to the imagination. I could see the heavy, thick outline of his dick pressing against the fabric, semi-hard and twitching just from looking at me.
"Jesus—Winnie." His voice was a wreck, gravel and sleep. He slapped a hand over his eyes, turning his head away, but I saw the flush creeping up his neck. "You can’t be standing there. Not like that."
"Like what?" I leaned against the doorframe, letting the towel slip a fraction of an inch lower. "Wet?"
"Naked," he corrected, dropping his hand to glare at me, though his eyes were wild. "You are functionally naked. And I am currently hanging onto my sanity by a very frayed thread."
"Good." I stepped forward.
He stepped back instinctively, but I followed, crossing the threshold into the dim, cool air of his room. It smelled like him—cedar, stale coffee, and sleep.
"Winnie, stop," he warned, but he didn't move away again. He stood paralyzed, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "I just spent an hour on the phone lying to my father. I am not in the headspace to be a gentleman."
