Before I can protest, she's pulling me further inside the tent. I follow because I do not want to make a scene, but also because some reckless part of me wants to get closer.
We're almost to the photo op when Jake gets called away by someone with a clipboard, leaving Wyatt alone. Jessica sees her opportunity and takes it, her grip on my arm becoming more insistent.
"Come on, before I lose my nerve," she murmurs.
The next second we're standing in front of Wyatt. My breath catches as heat pools in my belly. Up close, he's even more devastating—all lean muscle and controlled power. He stands up from the bar stool with the automatic courtesy that's been bred into western men for generations.
And when our eyes meet, the world shifts and I can’t breathe.
This cannot be happening right now. I've never met this man before. I've never felt this inexplicable urge to close the distance between us, like my body has its own agenda that makes zero sense.
This is not what I do.
"Y'all here for the drawing?" he asks, his voice makes my pulse do things I'd rather not acknowledge.
"I am, I’m Jessica." Jessica jumps in before I can speak. "And this is Kinsley and she’s thinking about it."
I shoot her a look that could strip paint. "My friend seems to think I need the excitement."
Wyatt focuses on me, and I might melt into the floor. "What do you think, Kinsley?" The question is simple, direct. No smooth lines or obvious charm. Just genuine curiosity about my opinion, like it actually matters to him. It catches me offguard in the best way.
His phone rings and he and I glance down at the same time.Dadflashes on the screen. He silences it and I avert my gaze before he sees that I was watching.
"I think playing the odds is for people who believe in taking unnecessary risks," I say, falling back on honesty because everything else feels too dangerous.
"And you don't take risks?"
There's no judgment in the question, no attempt to change my mind or convince me I'm wrong. He's just asking. It's so different from what I expected that I find myself answering more honestly than I intended.
"I believe in hard work. Fair contracts. Getting exactly what you pay for."
He studies me for a moment, and I have the unsettling feeling that he's seeing more than I meant to show. Something I said speaks to him and a thread of connection and attraction laces around us. My mouth dries out like a summer desert. If I start wagging my tongue, I'll stir up a dust devil, so I clamp my lips shut.
"That sounds like a woman who knows her own mind," he says finally.
Okay, I know I'm probably being played, but it's working.
"I do know what I want," I say, and I'm surprised by how steady my voice sounds when everything inside me feels like it's been knocked sideways. I'm also suddenly aware that I said that while staring deep into his eyes, but I can't look away.
"Good." He nods once, like that settles something important. His phone rings again,Grandpathis time. He sends it to voicemail without looking down. "World's gotenough people who don't know what they want. Refreshing to meet someone who does."
I shuffle my feet and I’m closer to him.
Before I can cross a line and touch his arm, a man in an expensive western suit and a Stetson approaches. "Wyatt, there’s someone I need you to meet.”
I watch something shift in Wyatt's expression—the easy openness he's shown me gets wrapped in a layer of professional courtesy.
"Of course, Mr. Patterson. Just finishing up here with these ladies. I believe they were promised a picture with a cowboy."
It's smooth. The kind of polite dismissal that sounds like respect but leaves no room for argument. I recognize the technique because I use it myself—the art of being gracious while maintaining control of the conversation.
Jessica snaps her photo so fast I think I blinked and missed it.
"Nice meeting y'all," he says to us, but his eyes linger on mine a beat longer than politeness requires. He steps toward me and leans close to say, "Stick around after the bull riding, Kinsley. I kiss better than I ride—and I plan on winning a buckle tonight."
My mouth falls open—half ready to snap, half aching with something I don’t want to name—but he’s already turning away, that easy swagger in his walk, shoulders broad.
Heat flares in my cheeks. Of all the arrogant… Reckless… Too handsome for his own good… As if I would ever hang around for a roughie—or any other cowboy for that matter.