Two words. That’s all.
I sag against the couch, hugging the phone to my chest like a teenager with her first crush. The screen dims, then goes dark against my hoodie.
A teenage crush is what this buzz feels like. Same dizzy anticipation, same terrible, wonderful ache of wanting someone you’re not sure you can have.
Interacting with Ryder is a tricky thrill. A rush that I shouldn’t want but can’t resist. I crave more of it and less of it in equal measure. Less of the confusion, the uncertainty, of this push-and-pull that leaves me off-balance. More of his attention, his humor, more of the fire he lights up in me, the blaze that fizzes over my skin until I turn into the human version of New Year’s sparkles.
The TV screen has gone dark, the game long since timed out. My workout is abandoned, endorphins replaced by a different high. The kind that comes from flirting with disaster via text message on a Friday night.
I should get up. Shower off the sweat and the confusion and the want that’s taken up permanent residence under my skin. I should do something productive with my evening that doesn’t involve mooning over Ryder Evans.
Instead, I stay right where I am, staring at that last “Lucky him,” desperate to decode the secrets behind those words.
I can’t bring myself to care if it’s wrong.
I want more texts. More dances. More sparks.
14
RYDER
I’ve been out in the calving pasture since sunrise, riding slow circles through the herds, tagging newborn calves, making sure each one is paired up and nursing before moving on to the next. The morning has been good with six healthy births, all standing and feeding within the hour. A day like this makes our cow-calf operation feel like less of a grind and more of a privilege. To be out in nature, breathing fresh air on land as old as time, in a place that never rushes. Despite the beauty and peace threaded through the open afternoon, my back aches from crouching. The sun is heavy on my shoulders, and sweat is soaking through my shirt even in the mild April weather. And I’ve still got the last herd to process before I call it a day.
I’ve got one hand steadying a bawling calf—this one’s a fighter, kicking and twisting as if he’s auditioning for the rodeo—and the other gripping the tagger when my phone buzzes in my pocket.
The vibration cuts through the afternoon sounds of the pasture, mama cows lowing, birds arguing in the trees, and the distant rumble of the river.
The yellow tag needs to go in before this little bull makes a break for it.
The phone buzzes again. Insistent.
Then a third time.
The calf takes advantage of my distraction and lands a hoof square in my thigh. Pain blooms hot and immediate. I swear, tighten my grip, and finally get the tag through his ear. He bolts the second I let go, racing back to his mama with his tail high, victorious in his escape. I straighten up, knees popping in protest.
I yank off my work glove with my teeth and fish the phone from my pocket, squinting at the screen. Harbor Point Elementary.
Shit.
My pulse kicks up as I swipe to answer. “Hello?”
“Mr. Evans?” A woman’s voice greets me, polite but on edge.
“Speaking.”
“This is Linda from Harbor Point Elementary.” Linda Hamilton, the principal’s secretary. “I’m calling about Rhys.”
My stomach drops. “Is he okay? Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine,” she assures me quickly. “But he was involved in an altercation with another student, and Principal Hughes would like to speak with both parents—” She catches herself. “With you. If you could stop by his office at pickup time.”
An altercation. That’s school-speak for Rhys got into a fight.
Sweet, wouldn’t-hurt-a-fly Rhys threw hands with another kid. Why? What could’ve happened?
Was he bullied?
The questions thud in my chest like hooves against the ground. Nobody lays a hand on my boy.
