"It’s perfect."
He put his hat back on and walked away from me. "There. Now you can leave me alone."
I shoved my phone into my back pocket and hurried after him, sneakers slipping on the straw as I tried to match his long strides.
“I woke up at five for you. My socks are soaked, I haven’t had breakfast, and I have a content calendar to fill. So no—I’m not leaving you alone. I’m following you around until I get enough footage to convince people you’re actually likable.”
"Good luck with that," he muttered.
For the next hour, I followed him around the barn, snatching short clips whenever he wasn’t looking. Hauling bales. Crouching beside a horse while he ran a hand down its front leg, murmuring something too low for me to hear.
He mostly ignored the phone. But every so often, his gaze drifted to it, his jaw tightening a little each time.
The barn was warming up fast. Sweat gathered at his temples. I circled around for a better angle as he reached for another bag of feed.
"Hold on," I said. "Can you grab that one from the other side? The light’s better."
He shifted his stance, grabbed the canvas bag, and heaved it over his shoulder, wiping sweat from his neck with the back of his forearm.
"You know," he said, "you can ask me to take my shirt off. Save us both the trouble."
My thumb slipped, and I accidentally stopped recording.
I lowered the phone. “Please. Why would I bother with a guy whose job lasts eight seconds?”
He froze. Then he let out a short, surprised laugh—the first real one I’d heard from him.
"Alright, Starlin’," he said, shaking his head. "I’ll give you that one."
“Don’t worry,” I said, smiling despite myself. “I won’t tell anyone you laughed.”
He turned back to the feed, but I caught the faint smile before he killed it.
I kept filming a little longer. Once Brock went back to pretending I wasn’t there, the shots actually got better. When I was satisfied with the amount of clips, I pocketed my phone.
“Okay,” I said, brushing hay dust off my jeans. “I’ve got enough for today.”
Brock glanced back, one eyebrow raised. “That’s it?”
“Don’t sound so disappointed. And no, not yet. I need your schedule between now and Cheyenne.”
Brock didn’t answer right away. He led me out of the barn and across the yard toward the field where cows were grazing. A section of fence had come down near the gate, the wire sagging low.
He stopped, unlatched the gate, and looked down at my sneakers. They were dark with dew and something I was choosing to believe was mud.
“You slip in those, I’m not carrying you back.”
“It was these or the heels,” I said sharply.
He grunted and walked through the gate. I followed.
“So? The schedule?”
“Cody first week of July. Sheridan the week after. Small ones in between if the draw’s right. Then Cheyenne.”
I groaned. “And Outlaw wants me at all of them.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I bet they do.”
