I capture his mouth again, harder this time, and he responds with equal hunger. He traces the line of my jaw while his other hand settles at the small of my back, and everywhere he touches feels like it's on fire.
When we finally break apart, the only thing I can hear is the creek beside us.
"Better?" he asks, his voice low and husky.
I nod, not trusting my voice, my fingers still twisted in his shirt like I'm afraid he'll disappear if I let go.
Seconds later I’m still breathless and caught up in the adrenaline pumping through my veins. “I’m good.” I huff. “Better than good.”
I bite my lip as my gaze wanders over his face. The jawline, the lips, those silver moon eyes and I know that I’m invested in more than saving his family’s land. I hear Jess in my head telling me to let go, to give in and just be in the moment.
And right now, I want as many moments with Wyatt Halloway as I can get my hands on.
Eighteen
TWENTY THOUSAND PEOPLE ARE SCREAMING WITH LAUGHTER.
WYATT
Kinsley’s trying to play it cool, but her grip on my hand tightens as we approach the private plane. Her fingers are cold despite the morning sun, and I can feel the tension humming through her like a live wire.
"You sure you're ready for this?" I ask, shifting both our bags to one arm so I can keep hold of her hand.
"It's just a plane," she says, but her voice lacks conviction.
I grin because she's lying, and we both know it. "Right. Just a plane." My sponsor likes to send their plane to pick up me and a few other rodeo assets to make sure we arrive on time to their events. Hitching a ride to rodeos is not allowed, though having a private plane sure would make riding the circuit a lot easier on me and Jake than bouncing around in my truck all night long.
When we’re here we’re treated like royalty—which is one of the reasons I wanted to bring Kinsley along this weekend. She works herself to the bone every day and someone needs to make sure she’s taken care of. I was just lucky enough to get the job. A steward immediately steps forward to take our bags, and I let him, grateful to keep Kinsley's hand in mine as we board.
A woman in a crisp plum-colored uniform appears at the top of the steps, her dark hair pulled back in a professional chignon. She looks to be in her thirties, with the kind of polished confidence that comes from years of catering to people who expect perfection. We aren’t those people, but she still acts like we are.
"Mr. Halloway? I'm Rebecca, your flight attendant today. Welcome aboard." Her attention shifts to Kinsley with seamless professionalism. "And you must be Ms. Rose. We're so pleased to have you flying with us."
I grin to myself. I called the sponsor to tell them I was bringing a guest and that I'd like her to have the VIP treatment. They were more than happy to oblige—because I rarely ask for anything personal and they're curious. Relationships—especially new ones—are news and news means free publicity for me and therefore them. I'm aware that bringing Kinsley along means I'll have to navigate all of that. I don't think she's aware of it and I'm not sure that warning her is a good idea.
Rebecca gestures to a basket beside her. "We have complimentary slippers for your comfort during the flight—they're quite soft." The slippers are pristine white and look like furry clouds shaped for feet. "Your boots will bereturned to you at the end of the flight, polished and oiled," Rebecca adds with a warm smile.
I watch Kinsley's eyebrows rise slightly at the offer, and I can't help but grin. "Trust me," I murmur close to her ear. "Your boots will thank you."
We both accept the slippers and take off our boots. Rebecca whisks them away and we move deeper into the plane.
The cabin wraps around us like a cocoon—rich leather seats, polished wood panels, and the kind of quiet luxury that whispers rather than shouts. Soft country tunes drift from hidden speakers.
Already seated and looking perfectly at home is Madison Torres, her blonde hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail. She's wearing designer jeans and the same slippers we are.
"Wyatt!" She rises to give me the kind of hug that speaks of shared arena dirt and mutual respect. "About time you showed up."
"Traffic," I lie, because the truth is I spent twenty minutes in the truck outside Kinsley's cottage, trying to convince myself this weekend won't change anything between us. The sponsor plane and fancy events—that's the polished side of what I do, the part that looks good in magazines. But what happens when she sees the rest of it? The total exhaustion after eight seconds on a bull. The nights sleeping in truck stops between venues. The weeks on the road when your phone becomes your only connection to anything that feels like home. Part of me is terrified she'll take one look at the reality behind the glamour and decide the cowboy life isn't what she bargained for. That I'm not worth the uncertainty, the danger, the long stretches ofmissing someone who might not make it home in one piece. This feels like a make-it-or-break-it weekend, and I'm not sure I'm ready to find out if what we have is strong enough to survive the truth of who I really am.
"Kinsley Rose, this is Madison Torres. Best barrel racer this side of the Mississippi."
Madison gasps. "Rose—as in Callie Rose?” Kinsley nods and Madison continues, “I admire her so much."
I watch Kinsley's face light up with pride, the way it always does when someone recognizes her mother's accomplishments. It's one of the things I admire about her—how she carries her family's legacy without letting it define her completely.
The cabin door opens again, and Jake grins at me from the doorway, moving with that easy confidence he's always carried. I push back from the seat I was leaning on and extend my hand. His grip is firm, callused, and we pull each other into a quick embrace—three solid thumps on the back before we step apart.
"How's the shoulder?" he asks quietly, his voice just low enough that the others can't hear.