Brock rolled his left shoulder and winced. “Dawson wasn’t rusty. He rode an eighty-nine. Took first and the buckle.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I skipped two rodeos this week to rest this damn shoulder. Needed those points bad. I drop any further on the leaderboard, I won’t make the NFR this year.”
“You’ll make up the points,” Colt said. “Don’t let it eat at you.”
Brock grunted but didn’t loosen up. His left arm pressed tight against his side. He wouldn’t say it in front of Wren and Colt, but he’d let it slip to me. Getting thrown off had made his injury worse. I could tell he was hurting more than he wanted anyone to know.
Ignoring the siblings' watchful eyes, I stepped into his space and fished the orange bottle and my water from my bag.
"Here," I said, pressing the water into his hand. I shook two large white pills into my palm and held them out. "Extra-strength. Eight-hundred milligram ones. Take these."
Brock studied the pills, then met my eyes. The hard lines around his mouth softened.
"Bossing me around off the clock, Starlin’?"
“Just take them,” I said, smiling softly.
He took the pills from my palm, his rough fingers dragging across my skin. He tossed them back and drained half the water bottle in one go.
"Alright, drugs are in," Wren said. "Now we're hauling your ass back to the motel. Ice pack and bed. No arguments."
Brock stood up, shaking his head. "We’re not going to the motel."
"But your shoulder—" I started.
“My shoulder’s fine.” He grabbed his brown felt hat off the truck bed and settled it low on his head. “You told me yesterday you’ve never been to a real state fair. I’m not ruining your night by acting like a lame horse that needs to be put in the barn.”
"I don't mind," I insisted.
"I do." He pushed off the tailgate and gestured toward the glow of the midway. "We're going. Colt wants a funnel cake anyway."
"I actually want a deep-fried Oreo," Colt corrected, rushing to fall into step beside us. "But I'll settle for both."
We left the contestant lot and let the crowd pull us into the midway. The fair was thick with the smell of diesel, fried dough, and the heavy, electric air that promised rain. Bright lights flashed in every direction. Laughter and excited screams echoed through the air as the rides spun. Balloons popped, and the clang of carnival games blended into the lively chaos.
Despite his bad mood, Brock couldn’t keep his eyes off my bare legs. I was wearing a denim skirt and the honey-colored ostrich boots from Ryder’s sponsor box.
Up ahead, squeezed between a deep-fried butter stand and a psychic reading tent, sat an old photo booth with a black curtain.
Colt stopped in his tracks. "Yes. Mandatory family photo. Right now."
“It’s ninety degrees out here,” Wren said, fanning herself. “I look like a swamp monster.”
“You look beautiful. Get in the booth,” Colt said, steering her by the back of her shirt. “Come on. Brock, Sienna. Let’s go.”
“Oh, you guys go ahead. Get a sibling one."
Wren grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward the booth. “Stop it and get in here.”
I stumbled in after her, laughing in surprise as she hauled me past the curtain into the tiny, claustrophobic box.
I dug my wallet out of my purse. “At least let me pay.”
Colt squeezed in behind me and swatted my hand away. “Put that down.” He fished a crumpled five out of his jeans and fed it into the slot.
“Move over,” Brock grunted.
He ducked inside after us. The booth was built for maybe three people, if they didn’t mind getting cozy. It was definitely not designed for four adults, including two men over six feet tall,one of them a bronc rider with shoulders that took up half the space.
Colt shoved Wren. Wren bumped into me, and suddenly I was pinned against the back wall. Brock squeezed in beside me, his thigh pressed against my bare leg, his shoulder brushing mine. He was solid, warm, and smelled of cedarwood soap.
