Page 57 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

“So, the rope you hold is called a flank strap?” I asked, leaning on the island as the smell of whatever he was cooking filled the kitchen.

He shook his head, stirring the large pot on the stove. “No, the flank strap is the one we use on the back of the bull. It ties under their belly, helps them buck more. Back in the day, they used to tie it to their, uh . . . testicles, but we got rid of that a long time ago. Now it’s more of an annoyance for the bull, just enough to make them buck harder to get it off.”

“What’s the thing you hold onto then?”

“That’s the bull rope,” he said. “It’s tied around the bull, just behind the front legs. There’s a bell attached to the end of it—it acts as a weight so the rope falls off safely once the ride’s over.”

I nodded, piecing it all together.

“But Kline mentioned something about stock auctions. He said that sometimes he bucks a dummy on the bulls?” I asked, watching as Beau’s hand stilled on the wooden spoon before he turned to face me fully.

“Is that like . . . someone like you who gets on?”

“HA.” Beau laughed and shook his head. “You think you’re real funny, don’t you?”

I smiled.

“The—”

“I know what it is. I did research before I took the job.”

His lips pressed into a tight line, and he nodded, clearly amused but trying not to let it show. “Alright then,” he said, folding his arms. “Go on, tell me.”

“A dummy’s a weighted device you strap on the bull. It’s remote-controlled, and once the bull bucks enough, it releases.” I took a sip of the beer he’d handed me. “No riders needed.”

His eyebrow twitched, and for a second, I thought he might actually be impressed. But instead, he smiled, turning back to the stove. “Alright, Cowgirl. Maybe you’re not all talk after all.”

“So, what are you cooking?” I asked, leaning against the counter and tilting my head, trying to catch a whiff of whatever smelled good.

“I thought I’d show you what people eat down here. None of that city girl stuff.” He teased, stirring the pot with a little too much smugness.

I laughed, rolling my eyes. “City people don’t have a certain cuisine, you know.”

“You know?” he chuckled, shaking his head. “I love when you talk back to me. Turns me on.”

“Beau,” I shouted, heat rushing to my face, though I couldn’t stop the laughter bubbling out of me.

“I can’t help myself,” he said through his laughter, his shoulders shaking. “I swear it.”

I narrowed my eyes at him, but didn’t respond, too busy watching him move around the kitchen. There was something almost disarming about how domestic he looked, standing there in those tight jeans that hugged his ass.

The way his T-shirt pulled against his broad shoulders when he leaned over to grab something off the counter had my thoughts wandering somewhere dangerous. My thighs pressed together instinctively, and I forced myself to look away, pretending to focus on the beer in my hand.

“Chicken and dumplings,” he said, snapping me back to reality.

“What?”

“That’s what I’m making.” He glanced over at me. “Chicken and dumplings. Southern comfort food, Cowgirl. You’re about to eat like a Texan.”

Beau stirred the pot one last time before grabbing two bowls from the cabinet and filling them. He slid one of the bowls in front of me on the counter, then grabbed a spoon and handed it over. Without a word, he pulled up a seat next to me, settling into the stool with an easy confidence that made me hyperaware of how close he was.

“Go ahead,” he said, gesturing to the bowl. “Try it. I want to see if this city girl can handle some real food.”

I rolled my eyes but grabbed the spoon, dipping it into the creamy broth. The first bite was hot, rich, and filled with flavors that made me want to groan in appreciation—but I refused to give him the satisfaction of that.

Instead, I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye and shrugged. “Not bad.” I tried to keep my voice neutral.

“Not bad?” He laughed, his knee brushing against mine as he leaned in slightly, his eyebrows raised. “That’s all you’ve got? ‘Not bad?’”