For the next twenty minutes, I watched him work with her. He demonstrated each step slowly, correcting Addison's grip on the rope, repositioning her feet. His instructions were clear and direct—weight distribution, wrist rotation, the exact moment to release. Addison was athletic and absorbed the proper technique quickly. By the end, she'd managed to rope the dummy at ten feet, and her face was flushed with pride.
"That's it exactly," Rhodes told her. "Keep practicing while I work with Presley."
He turned to me, held out a rope. "Your turn."
I took it, tried to mimic what I'd seen him do. The loop collapsed. The rope tangled around my wrist.
Well, heck.
"Here." He moved behind me.
His chest pressed against my back. His hands came to rest on my hips, shifting my weight. One arm circled around, his fingerswrapping over mine to correct my grip on the rope, guiding it into position overhead.
"Relax," he murmured at my ear. "Trust the rope."
Relax. Right. With his body aligned against mine, solid and warm. With his hands on my hips. With his breath stirring my hair.
"Try again."
I tried to focus. On the lasso in my hands. On the distance to my target. On anything except the feel of him—his chest against my back, his fingers tightening on my hips, his hand guiding mine through the motion.
"That's better." His voice had dropped lower. "Feel the rhythm?"
What I felt had nothing to do with roping.
"Miss Presley?" Addison called from across the arena. "Can you watch this? I think I'm getting it!"
Rhodes stepped back. I turned to watch Addison, trying to remember how to breathe normally.
For the next hour, we worked. Addison's confidence grew with each successful throw. I, on the other hand, was terrible. Worse than terrible. I dropped the line twice, tangled it around my ankles once, and didn't hit the dummy a single time.
I'd built a career on confidence—teaching girls to walk into any room and own it. But out here in the arena with dirt under my boots and rope in my hands? I was completely out of my depth.
I glanced down at my boots—adorable when I'd put them on this morning, now caked with what I was pretty sure wasn't mud. And my manicure? The tough fibers of the lasso had already snagged two nails. Pageant coaching had never been this hazardous to my appearance.
It wasn't that I couldn't learn. I'd learned complicated choreography, memorized entire interview prep guides, mastered the art of walking in four-inch heels on a slick runway.
But every time Rhodes moved close to correct my form, I forgot what he'd just told me. Lost track of which hand did what. Stared blankly when he repeated an instruction.
"What did I just say?" he asked after my third failed attempt in a row.
"Um." I blinked at him. "Something about... the loop?"
His mouth quirked. "Right. The loop."
He knew exactly what he was doing to me. And he was enjoying it.
"You'll get it," he said, though I caught the amusement in his eyes. "Just takes practice."
By the time we loaded back into the truck, the sun was setting, painting the Texas sky in warm hues of orange and gold.
"You're ready," Rhodes told Addison as we drove back toward town. "Keep practicing this week, and you'll do great at the competition."
"I can't thank you enough." She gave him her address—just off Sycamore Street.
He pulled up in front of her house. Addison waved, disappeared inside.
The moment she was gone, silence filled the cab.
