"No buts. I’m going to get this cowboy to behave, land the bonus, and we’ll be fine. Now go study."
"Are you sure?"
I swallowed. "I’m sure. I’ll text you later, okay? Love you."
I ended the call. The kitchen went quiet again.
I stared at my laptop screen, my mind racing. The campaign was not fine.
Brock had done the podcast as I'd requested, doing the bare minimum to cooperate with me before retreating back into his silence. But when the host handed him the perfect opening—an easy question about what fueled those incredible eight-second rides, the setup we’d rehearsed for the sponsor plug—Brock had leaned into the microphone and said:
"Black coffee and the need to pay property taxes."
The clip went viral within hours. His fans loved it. Outlaw did not.
Then Avery's email landed in my inbox.
Need update ASAP.
They want a dedicated Outlaw post by the end of the week or they’re pulling the bonus.
Seven days until Cheyenne. Less than a month until tuition was due. And I still didn't have the sponsored content to send them.
A familiar, sickening dread settled in my stomach—the same feeling I'd had sitting at my kitchen table in Chicago, watching Trent pack his boxes.
Never again, I'd promised myself that day. I would never let a man compromise my career again. And yet here I was, covering for Brock's stubbornness and letting my boundaries blur just because he'd let me sleep on his shoulder.
I pushed back from the table and pressed the heels of my hands into my eyes.
When I lowered them, Brock was standing in the kitchen doorway. He'd showered since the diner, his hat gone, damp hair curling slightly at the ends. His gaze flicked from my face to the laptop screen.
"When's the last time you ate something?" he asked.
"I had pancakes."
"That was seven hours ago."
"I’m not hungry."
He looked at me the way I’d looked at him after Cody, when he’d insisted his shoulder was fine, and I’d known he was lying.
Without a word, he turned and walked out.
I heard him moving around the house. A door opened, then closed. I went back to the edit, trimmed two seconds off the clip, undid it, trimmed one second, then undid that too.
Ten minutes later, Brock walked back into the kitchen wearing the Outlaw shirt.
Black with a neon-green logo across the chest, it was still creased from the package. He'd tucked it into his jeans, cinched his belt, and rolled the sleeves halfway up his forearms, the way he always did.
I just stared.
"The light's good for about another hour," he said. "Got Rio saddled."
I opened my mouth, then closed it again.
He tipped his head toward the door. "You coming or not, Starlin'? I'm not standing here in this ugly shirt all night."
I grabbed my phone and followed him outside. The timing couldn’t have been better. The sun was dropping behind the Bighorns, throwing long shadows across the fields. The heat of the day was finally fading, and a cool breeze moved through the yard.
