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“Worth it?” He asks, his tone full of smug assumption. I blame the heat. Heat makes people crazy. Case in point, I’m parading around like an idiot in downtown Fort Worth playing cowgirl, waiting to see a parade of cows.

“Worth it?” Easton repeats.

“I already decided it was.” I take another sip of my beer. “Oh, I know. I could wear this again role-playing with my future husband, whowill bea Dallas Cowboys’ fan.”

He chuckles. “Good luck finding one of those.”

“You better have meant a Cowboys’ fan, not a husband, and blasphemy, sir. That’s America’s team you’re talking about.”

“Only claimed by Cowboys’ fans.”

“I’ll bet you they win the Super Bowl this year.”

“I’ll take you up on that bet.”

“So, youdoknow football?”

“I’ve observed enough to know that most people love or loathe the Cowboys, more the latter.”

“Whatever. Cowboys aside, not being a Longhorns’ fan, that would be the true nonstarter. Wha, wha, whaaaa,” I mock in my best game show buzzer impersonation.

“That’s a real tall order, Butler,” he mutters dryly. “Don’t sell yourself short or anything.”

“Hey, grumpy, take a drink. The heat is making you irritable.”

“Or maybe it’s the annoying-as-hell, buzzing, blue bee that can’t seem to sit still.”

“Fine,” I sigh, “The show’s over, but just know you missed the grand finale,” I tease, reclaiming my seat and discarding my hat. “Today is a good day.” I take another sip of my beer, the light buzz filtering through me as I soak in an authentic Texas experience with my favorite rock star. “Though, I don’t get the appeal of this lifestyle.” I glance through the iron bars, which sit just below lined planters full of thick green ivy, and spot two cowboys mounting thoroughbreds across the street dressed in full riding gear, chaps included.

“Why?” Easton prompts. “Why don’t you get the appeal?”

“For one, it looks . . . uncomfortable. Covered in dirt all the time, working in extreme heat only to stare at cows’ asses. Struggling through half the day to get a whiff of fresh air instead of inhaling the stench of their shit, bleh. No thanks.”

Laughter bursts from Easton as I look over and smile at him sitting next to me, his own boots propped and crossed at the ankles on top of the dark blue and red-tiled table.

“Where’s the reward? Starry nights of solitude playing “Home on the Range,” next to a campfire with a harmonica?” I shrug. “Seems like a lonely life.”

“Only if you base a cowboy’s life on the few Western movies you’ve seen.”

“First of all, if I’ve ever seen a Western, it was completely by accident—I promise you that. And I mean, hey, I know there’s a lot more to it. Just seems like a lot of work for little-to-no payoff. Some of the folklore surrounding it has got to be true, or it wouldn’t be the standard. Bet you’d dig it, yaloner.”

His smile fades when I reach for my schooner, and he grabs it and sets it next to him on the table, just out of reach. “How about you hold off on that for a second.”

“I’ve only had one,” I defend. “You made me drink four waters between that and this one.”

“For good reason. Just for a minute,” he adds. “Okay?”

“Okay.” I bite my lip as he bends and pulls my chair closer to his, the stifling summer air instantly charging as I run my sweaty palms down my jeans, more sweat trickling down the nape of my neck. “Are you about to start a fight?”

“Is the road anything like you thought it would be?” He asks, dodging my question.

“In a way, but I know there’s a lot more to it.” I saw the warning looks he gave to Tack last night when he relayed a few road stories. Honestly, I’m too terrified to know if Easton has his own to tell yet.

“Okay,” he accepts easily, too easily, as I follow the drop of sweat gliding down his Adam’s apple before it disperses over the top of his cross.

“Tell me why you wrote that article.”

The question stuns me as he lifts my chin with gentle fingers, demanding my focus.

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