“Maggie, right?” He holds out a hand.
“Logan?” I think that’s what I heard the other cowboys call him.
“Yep. Layla’s much better looking twin.”
“Oh, is she here?” I look around like an idiot as if she’d be behind the arena, too. Of course I do. How many times can I screw this up?
“Actually, she just rode. Barrels. I’ll introduce you. The circuit can be lonely all by yourself.”
“Oh, I?—”
“It’s no hassle. Besides, this lot are more inclined to want into your bed than your good graces.”
At this point, my cheeks are down to ashes. So when the telltale heat of a blush hits for the third time in twenty minutes, I ignore it.
Cowboys mull about Levi and his clipboard, the draft for who gets what bull becoming a heated discussion.
Logan playfully punches my shoulder and finds a clear patch of dirt to start stretching. I snap a few of him lunging and star-jumping. He’s nimble and uber fit, by the looks of it. God knows he needs to be, putting himself in front of a runaway freight train for a living.
Man must be madder than the fools topside of said raging freight trains, if you ask me.
There are so many ways this can go wrong.
One mistake. One fumbled footfall. One second of not paying attention can cost you everything with bull riding.
At least, that’s what it cost Mom and me.
