“You didn’t even tell me your name yet,” she muttered as we crossed the bar.
I pushed open the door with my shoulder and stepped into the cold.
She looked up at me, hair in her face, cheeks flushed.
“And now you’re carrying me out of a bar like some small-town cowboy cliché.”
“You don’t even know my name, and I’m already sweeping you off your feet?”
She groaned.
“God. Are you a real cowboy?”
“Cash.”
“What?”
“That’s my name.”
She squinted. “Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
“Well,” she said, eyes drifting back to her busted ankle, “Cash… remind me to wear boots next time.”
I tightened my grip just a little.
“Deal.”
She looked at me as I opened the barn gate.
“So… which horse am I riding?”
I jerked my chin toward the tallest, blackest bastard in the back.
“That one.”
She squinted. “The one glaring at me?”
“Yep.”
I gave his flank a light slap. “Shakespeare.”
She cocked her head. “Nice to meet you, Shakespeare.”
Then—God help me—she actually stepped forward like she was gonna mount him. Hand up, determined, clueless.
“Andyou? Which one are you riding?” she asked, glancing back over her shoulder. She was holding the lead rope like it was a broken phone charger.
“You know how to ride?” I asked, crossing my arms.
She shrugged. “How hard can it be? I mean, Ialmoststayed on the bull.”
I stared at her.
“You mean the mechanical bull that dumped you in two seconds flat?”
“Yep.”
