Page 54 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

There was something about looking out over miles of open land that felt cathartic. No buildings, no concrete, just space. It was the kind of peace that was impossible to put into words.

Beau’s eyes drifted down, and he frowned slightly. “Your pants are wet.”

I nodded, stifling another laugh. “Yeah, from when you awkwardly tried to hug me, and I fell on the ground.”

He shook his head before walking toward the door. “Come inside,” he said, pushing it open without hesitation.

I hesitated, my feet stuck to the porch like they suddenly weighed a ton. Was this crossing some kind of line? We’d barely established this new let’s-be-friends boundary, and walking into his house felt . . . intimate. Like stepping into a space I wasn’t sure I belonged in yet.

He seemed so casual about it, like it didn’t even cross his mind that it might be an issue. Maybe it didn’t have to mean anything. Maybe I was just overthinking it—like always.

Taking a breath, I stood and followed him to the door, the warmth from inside already beckoning me in from the cold.

His house was one big open space, and the moment I entered, warmth blanketed me. The living room and kitchen blended into each other, divided only by a long, dark wood island. Oversized leather furniture dominated the space. The floors were a rich wood, giving the entire house a cozy, earthy feel.

The kitchen in the back looked newer, though it matched the darker tones of the rest of the house. Stainless steel appliances gleamed, and the dark cabinets gave it a modern edge that somehow still fit the rustic vibe.

Beau gestured toward a staircase tucked off to the side. “Three bedrooms upstairs, but the biggest bathroom is through my room. Go on and get in there.”

I blinked, staring at him. “And do what?” My eyebrows raised like I’d somehow missed an important part of this plan.

“Get changed,” he deadpanned.

“Into . . .?” I asked, tilting my head.

The corner of his mustache twitched, that telltale smirk threatening to break loose.

He gestured to the stairs, but I stayed planted, throwing my hands on my hips. “Did I miss some big gesture here?”

He laughed, shaking his head. “I’m going to grab you some pants. Sweats that should fit—or you can tie to fit.”

“And this is happening because . . .?”

“You’re cold, and I’m a gentleman,” he huffed.

I couldn’t help it—I loved when he got annoyed. Watching his eyebrows furrow and his mouth twitch upward was way more fun than it should’ve been. That mouth that once gave me some friction when⁠—

Nope. Nope. Stop.

“Alright,” I said before I could overthink it. “Can-can I use the bathroom too? To, you know, wash my hands or whatever?”

His eyebrows furrowed briefly, but then he nodded. “Of course.”

He gestured toward the stairs again, and I followed him up, his boots thudding softly on the wooden steps. At the top, he pointed out a few closed doors before stopping in front of his room.

His bedroom was spacious but simple, with a big four-poster bed dominating the center of the space. The bed was made, the sheets a muted charcoal gray, and in the corner was an oversized leather chair. The walls were mostly bare, except for one section that caught my attention. Tucked along the far side of the room was a collection of framed photos, a few ribbons, and news clippings.

My curiosity tugged me closer. The pictures told a story of a younger version of Beau atop bulls mid-buck, one hand high in the air, his face set with determination. There were group shots too, him surrounded by riders, their smiles wide and hats tipped.

Some of the news clippings were faded, their headlines bold and proud: “Rookie of the Year” and “Banks Secures First Win in Denver.” A couple of plaques hung next to them, their gold lettering gleaming faintly in the light.

He walked up beside me, his eyes drifting to the wall. For a moment, he didn’t say anything, just stood there quietly, his gaze fixed on a picture of him mid-ride, frozen in a moment of chaos and control.

“You’re not scared? That you’ll get hurt?” I glanced over at him.

“Nah. I mean, sure, sometimes I get on that bull and wonder if it’ll be my last ride. But mostly? I get on the bull to feel something.”

“To feel something?” I repeated, the words sticking in my head.