“Now you’re ready.”
She swallowed.
“Okay. Yeah. I think I am.”
By the time I stepped back from the bull and made it over to the bar, it felt like every damn eye in the place was locked on Willa.
I leaned against the counter next to Rick when the front door creaked open behind me.
Hope.
Of course.
She walked in like someone had hung a poster:Tonight only—Willa rides the fucking bull.
Rick nudged the speed dial up a notch, keeping it smooth. The bull started moving under Willa in a steady rhythm, and she adjusted like it was nothing. Legs tight, grip solid.
People started whistling. First one, then another.
Rick chuckled under his breath.
“If she stays on for three minutes,” he called out, “drinks are on the house.”
Cheers broke out. Willa didn’t flinch.
Dillon, already two beers deep, shouted, “If she makes it four, she can do whatever she wants to me!”
Then another voice came—one I didn’t recognize.
“If she hits five, she’s coming’ back to mine. Baby, I missed you.”
I blinked.
Wait—what?
I turned toward the crowd, just as Willa lost balance. Her body arched high, boots kicking up mid-air, and she slammed down hard on the mat.
The room went dead quiet.
The bull kept spinning like it hadn’t noticed.
And then that same asshole vaulted onto the mat, pushing past the last layer of sense I had.
He crouched beside her.
“Sweetheart, you okay? Time to come home.”
I didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
“What the fuck?”
I knew it the second that guy opened his mouth. The way he saidbaby. The way she didn’t flinch. Didn’t push him off. Just sat there, looking dazed like I wasn’t even in the room.
I turned before I could start thinking.
Rick was holding a bottle, mid-pour. I reached over and took it from his hand.
