"You ready to get out of here?" he asks, and there's something in his voice that tells me he knows exactly what just happened between us, exactly what it means.
No. I'm not ready for this, but I nod anyway. Somewhere between his good-morning-beautiful texts and last night’s kiss, I slacked off on protecting my heart.
I’ve got it bad for a bull rider—and the worst part is, I think he knows it.
Twenty-Two
WE'RE TANGLING AND UNTANGLING IN THIS WILD, ALMOST WICKED DANCE.
WYATT
I'd never tasted fear on another person's lips before.
But that's exactly what happened when Kinsley kissed me after my ride tonight—raw terror mixed with relief.
I figured having Kinsley in the stands might mess with my head and make me think too much. Turns out I was wrong. She makes everything better, including my riding. I knew exactly what Midnight Express was going to do before he did it.
Two thousand pounds of pure dynamite beneath me, and I was the calmest I'd ever been in a chute. I was riding for one person—and for once it wasn’t me.
The ride itself was textbook perfect until my boot caught in the rope. Three seconds of being dragged alongside a bull that could crush every bone in my body withoutbreaking stride, should have been terrifying. Instead, all I could think was: Get free. Get back to her.
After an experience like that, Kinsley needs a release. She needs to go dancing and I can’t think of a better way to get her body pressed up against mine than moving her around the dance floor.
The Million Dollar Cowboy Bar sits on the corner of Cache and Broadway like a neon-lit shrine to everything that makes Jackson Hole famous. Even from half a block away, I can hear the bass line of a live band thumping through the night air.
"Have you been here before?" I ask Kinsley as we approach the entrance.
She takes in the sight before us—cowboys and cowgirls streaming in and out of the double doors and the glow of neon beer signs.
"Nope," she says, but she's grinning.
The moment we step inside, the place hits all my senses at once. Genuine leather saddles serve as stools along a bar that stretches the length of the back wall, polished mahogany gleaming under heavy wooden chandeliers. The walls are covered in rodeo memorabilia—championship buckles, vintage chaps, photographs of legendary riders going back decades.
Pool tables with red felt occupy one corner, already crowded with cowboys and cowgirls chalking cues and talking trash. The dance floor draws my attention because that’s where I want to spend most of my time here.
The air smells like leather and beer, with undertones of cologne and perfume from the crowd that's packed shoulder to shoulder. Every face in the place looks familiar—ridersfrom today's competition, sponsors, stock contractors, and the kind of rodeo groupies who follow the circuit from town to town.
"Wyatt! Over here!" Jake calls, and I spot him waving from a table near the dance floor. He's got company—a petite blonde who's sitting so close to him she's practically in his lap, looking around like she can't believe where she is. She's wearing the kind of clothes that say she doesn't work on a ranch but wouldn't mind finding herself a cowboy. It looks like she did, at least for tonight.
I guide Kinsley through the crowd as we navigate between tables. The silk of her blouse is warm under my palm, the deep emerald green making her skin glow. She's paired it with a flowing skirt that hits just above her knees, the fabric swaying with each step, and boots that add just enough height to bring her closer to my eye level. When she turns to check our path through the crowd, I catch the scent of that wildflower perfume that I fall asleep thinking about.
"Hey," I say as we reach the table, extending my hand to Jake’s date. "I don't think we've met."
"This is Ashley," Jake says, pulling the blonde closer to his side, but I can tell his mind's somewhere else. He keeps looking across the room, and when I follow his gaze, I can't help but grin. Madison's at the bar chatting with a tie down roper, and Jake's watching her like a hawk.
Jake, you sly dog.
Jake’s voice grabs my attention. "Ashley, meet Wyatt and Kinsley."
Ashley nods and smiles, but doesn't say much beyond a quiet hello. She's pretty enough, with the kind of nervous energy that comes from being out of her element.
We settle into the leather-covered chairs, and within minutes a waitress appears to take our order. The steaks here are legendary—thick cuts of beef that melt like butter. I'm about to suggest we order when a long arm drapes across my shoulders.
"Hey, cowboy," Brittney purrs, like she has every right to touch me. She leans down so close I can smell her perfume—something cloying and sweet that makes my stomach turn. "Miss me?"
She's wearing a hot pink tank top that's two sizes too small and shorts so short they could double as swimwear. White thigh-high boots with laces up the back complete the look—the kind of outfit designed to stop traffic and start conversations.
Jake raises his eyebrows, and Ashley looks like she wants to disappear under the table. The waitress spins on her heel and takes off like a shot.