I stop walking.
He turns toward me, eyes locking on mine.
"I know I've been giving you shit about my sister, but I still have your back."
Appreciation for my oldest friend sends warmth through me. "Thanks. Good to know."
"So no betting at all?" he questions.
"None," I answer.
He stares at me for a moment, then questions, "But we can still drink beer?"
I chuckle. "Yeah. I only have a problem with whiskey. It makes me think I'm invincible and that the odds are in my favor."
Jagger grins. "Whiskey's overrated these days anyway."
I offer, "I'm okay if you drink it around me."
He shakes his head. "Nah. Don't tell anyone, but the headaches the next day are starting to kill me."
I grunt. "Isn't that the truth."
He slaps me on the back. "All right, then. Get your dirty ass inside and shower. We have to get on the road. You have a rodeo to win!"
29
Willow
Six Months Later
Warm August air kisses my skin. Male cicadas sing their summer song, calling their mates. They fly around in groups, their prominent eyes set wide apart, transparent wings, and stout bodies flittering across the fields.
The louder they get, the antsier I become. It's been fourteen days, six hours, forty-three minutes, and some odd seconds since Wyatt and I were in the same state, let alone the same bed. Between his rodeos and my team traveling for competitions, we've been two shooting stars going opposite directions in the same sky.
My heart aches. We've survived six months of this crazy routine. His winning streak has been unreal. Headline after headline, buckle after buckle, he's on the longest streak any rider's ever had. And I couldn't be prouder of him.
Every time I tell Wyatt how amazing he's doing, he tells me that the best part doesn't involve victory. He claims it's knowing that every time he wins, he can come home to me.
I always tell him that if he loses, he's still to come home.
He'll put his fingers over my lips and remind me, "We don't say that word," which always makes me laugh.
The deep rumble of a diesel truck hits my ears, growing louder. The Butterfly House is far from the main gate, but I scan the dark drive, looking for the cloud of dust that I know is coming.
My heart does a two-step when his truck slice through the trees. I press a hand against my belly, trying to calm the nervous fluttering, but it's useless. The second I see the familiar silhouette of his truck, every bit of resolve I've built up to stay cool shatters.
I dart down the porch steps and run toward the truck. The gravel crunches, his tires spitting up pebbles. I get past the summer garden, and the truck stops hard enough to jolt.
The door flies open, and Wyatt jumps out. He runs toward me, boots heavy, hat casting dark shadows over eyes that burn like wildfire. He growls, "Sugar!"
I leap into his arms, and he lifts me off the ground, spinning me. Unable to contain my excitement, a squeal escapes my mouth. I wrap my legs around his waist.
He chuckles. One large palm cups my ass, and the other splays across my back.
I grip his broad shoulders, and our mouths connect, our lips and tongues pressing together. I kiss him deeply until I'm out of breath.
He mumbles against my lips, "Goddamn, sugar. Two weeks. I thought I was gonna lose my mind."
