And then I think about the sound she'll make when I ride Gravedigger for eight seconds and walk out of that arena on two feet.
I pull my rope tighter and head for the chutes with Jett on my tail.
I'm behind chute three, one foot on the rail, checking my wrap, when I hear her.
Not her voice. Not yet. I hear the reaction to her, the low whistle from one of the riders to my left, the way Jett suddenly stops talking mid-sentence, the subtle shift in energy thathappens when something bright walks into a room full of dirt and testosterone.
I turn around.
And there she is.
Harper Jones, walking through the back gate of the rider area like she owns the entire fairground. White cowboy boots. Denim cutoffs that should be illegal. A cropped flannel tied at her waist, sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her blonde hair is loose and golden under a cream Stetson that I'm almost certain used to be mine.
She's looking for me. I can tell by the way her eyes are scanning the chutes, the way she's moving fast, weaving through riders and stock hands, her boots kicking up dust. I'm already moving.
I step off the rail, pull my gloves off, toss them on my bag, and walk toward her through the crowd. Everything else drops away. None of it exists. Just her, closing the distance, that smile breaking across her face the second she spots me.
She runs.
Full sprint in cowboy boots. Purse bouncing on her shoulder, hat nearly flying off, not a single care in the world about the thirty riders watching or the stock hands whistling or the fact that I'm in full rodeo gear.
I catch her.
She launches herself at me, and I lift her off the ground, arms locked around her waist, spinning her once because I can't help it. Her legs wrap around me, her hands grab my face, and she kisses me like she's been counting every single minute since I last touched her.
I kiss her back the same way.
Her fingers slide into my hair, knocking my hat off. I don't care. Her mouth is warm and tastes like the airplane coffee she probably drank the whole flight here. She's laughing against mylips, and I'm smiling too hard to kiss her properly, and it doesn't matter.
"You're here," I say, pulling back just enough to look at her.
"Flight was delayed, rushed to drive here in time." She's breathless. "I had to get here before you went out. I had to."
"You made it."
"I made it." She presses her forehead to mine, still suspended in my arms, legs wrapped around me like she's never letting go. "Hi, cowboy."
"Hi, Goldie."
She drops her legs, and I set her down, but I keep my hands on her waist. Can't stop touching her. Won't stop touching her.
She straightens my collar. Brushes dust off my vest. Fusses with me the way she used to, like getting me ready is part of her ritual too.
"You look—" She steps back and gives me a slow once-over, bottom to top. The chaps. The vest. The button-down with the sleeves rolled. Her teeth dig into her bottom lip, and her cheeks flush pink.
"Dangerous," she finishes.
"That's the idea."
She picks my hat up off the ground, dusts it off, and places it back on my head. Her hands linger on the brim, adjusting it just right, and when she looks up at me, her eyes are so full of something that it nearly takes my knees out.
"You're going to win," she says. Not a question.
"I always win when you're watching."
"Then I won't blink."
Jett wolf-whistles from the chutes. I flip him off without turning around.
