Page 55 of Fixing to Be Mine

He reaches for my hand and threads his fingers through mine. “And what about you?”

Families, couples, friends in boots and jeans and cowboy hats steal glances at us as we pass them. Thankfully, I understand how to act in the spotlight.

I breathe in a little deeper, not knowing how to respond. “I’m not going backward.”

Music spills from the speakers strung across the arena, where they’re doing barrel racing. Light beams down overhead. This place is alive and packed. The two of us take a seat on the bleachers and watch.

“Fenix has the record.”

I draw circles on his palm. “She doesn’t ride anymore—like, at all?”

“No.” He lets out a long sigh. “I heard rumors that she quit college and riding because of someone else.”

“Who?” I ask, wanting to know more.

“I was told a broken heart can destroy a person,” he explains. “She doesn’t talk to anyone about it. Still hasn’t started riding again. Beckett and Harrison have begged her to give lessons at their barn. Sponsors call her every damn week.”

The crowd perks up as the announcer’s voice cuts through the summer haze, interrupting our conversation.

“All right, folks, keep your eyes on the chute. Up next, riding out of West Texas with more championship buckles than I can count, Jace Tucker.”

The name means nothing to me, but the crowd goes wild. I scan around and realize it’s nothing but women. This man has a fan club.

Colt’s posture shifts beside me—shoulders back, arms crossed over his chest. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

I squint toward the gate as the rider appears—tall, lean, and confident in that quiet way that makes a woman look twice. He adjusts the brim of his hat, loops the rope once around his hand, and settles into the saddle like he was born there.

The calf bolts from the chute. Everything after that happens too fast for me to track. Jace leans low, the rope spinning above him once, twice, and then he lets it fly. It lands clean around the calf’s neck, and before I even blink, he’s off the horse and on the ground, tying it in three quick motions around its legs like it’s second nature.

The whole thing takes seconds. Maybe less.

The crowd roars.

Colt lets out a slow clap. “Still has it. Of course he does.”

“Who is he?” I ask, watching as Jace tips his hat toward the stands and heads for the rail with unhurried ease.

“Jace Tucker,” Colt says. “Used to live here. Was best friends with Emmett. Raised hell, won everything, and then he packed up and went pro. One of the best ropers in the circuit.”

“He’s good,” I admit, still watching him.

Colt glances at me sideways. “Don’t get any ideas, darlin’.”

I smirk. “Relax. He’s not my type. Way too young. Under twenty-five is a hell no.”

“Yeah?” Colt raises an eyebrow.

“Also, too much swagger. Don’t want to be with a man who craves attention or has a fan club,” I say, even though I can’t quite stop watching the way Jace moves, confident, like a man who takes what he wants.

Colt grunts. “Mmhmm. That swagger’s about to cause some trouble.”

I glance across the arena; I catch someone else watching Jace.

Fenix.

Her jaw’s tight, and her arms are crossed over her chest. And whatever she’s thinking—whatever that look means—I get the feeling I watched a fuse light itself. She’s livid.

Colt tilts his head as he watches them. His brows furrow.

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