Page 19 of Eight Seconds to Ride

“Well, at the time, it was all I knew.” I lazily shrug. “My mom used to be an elementary school teacher before I was born, so she knew what she was doing. Going to public school after being homeschooled, though, was interesting, to say the least.”

Our food gets dropped off, and for the most part, the conversation fades out. We all end up eating little bits from everyone’s plates… a genius idea, because we all got something different. Everything’s delicious.

“Have all of you lived in Copper Lake your whole life?” I ask after a few minutes.

Jessie and Colt both nod, but it’s Daisy who responds. “Yeah, all of us except Clem. She moved to town in high school. The rest of us all grew up together.” She takes a long sip of her water before adding, “It’s her family’s house we’re driving to today.”

We’re only a week into the season, but it’s already been so fun, and completely not what I expected at all. Not just the rodeos themselves, but everything they do in between. I won’t lie; when Cope suggested—or rather demanded—I drive with him and Shooter instead of taking my own truck, I was more than a little uneasy. I had no idea what to expect about traveling around Colorado and Wyoming with a bunch of people I barely knew, and I was completely on board with the fact that I’d travel alone and just have a lot of downtime between events. This is so much better than what I would’ve done by myself.

It's cool, the way they plan stuff to do in between competing. And it means a lot that they were okay with me being a part of it all. Even if I’m positive not everyone is thrilled about me being here…and by“not everyone,”I mean Shooter.

After we all finish eating and pay the bill, we meet up with the rest of the crew and hit the road. This time, I’m riding with Daisy and Clementine. Figured having a breather away from Shooter and his loud and heavy presence would be good for me. It feels like I’ve been drowning in him and his distaste for me for days now. It radiates off him and seeps into my pores when we’re stuck in the truck together for hours at a time. When we first ran into each other again, he was flirty, but now it just seems like I’m a giant annoyance to him, despite when he tried to hook up with me again, which, if I had to guess, probably had more to do with getting off than liking or tolerating me. And to be honest, I’m not sure which version I prefer.

It only takes about an hour and a half to get to where we’re going, and once we arrive, I’m in awe. This place is huge. Farmland for miles and a rocky mountain backdrop that looks almost too beautiful to be real.

“Holy crap, this is your house?” I ask Clem as we pile out of the truck, not even bothering to hide my gawking.

She chuckles as she grabs her duffle out of the front seat. “Yup. Home sweet home.”

“This place looks like it’s out of a movie or a postcard or something.”

Clem just smiles as the other trucks pull in beside Daisy’s and they all climb out. My gaze lands on Shooter’s, who’s already looking at me, an expression I can’t quite place floating in his eyes, but I look away before I attempt to decipher it.

The sun is huggingthe western horizon, the sky a beautiful mix of pinks and oranges and reds, daylight nearly gone. There’s music playing, people dancing, drinks flowing, and it’s been a really freaking good day. Clem’s family are some of the most welcoming I’ve ever met. She has tons of aunts and uncles and cousins, and they’re all here today.

I found out a few hours ago that this get-together is an annual thing, and it’s in celebration of Clem’s grandpa. He turns seventy in a couple of days. He used to be a dairy farmer before he retired; a family business that Clem’s dad and uncle still carry on. It was amazing listening to his stories about how he got to be where he’s at and how the farm got started.

Farmers and ranchers have my absolute respect. Their job isn’t easy, they don’t get days off, and a lot of the time, it’s aninsane amount of work for very little payoff, if any at all. It’s not for the weak, that’s for damn sure. When I was a kid, and my family lived at the Grazing Acres Ranch, I remember all the work my dad had to put in being a ranch hand. The long days, the blisters and sore muscles, the bone-deep exhaustion. But you ask anybody who’s lived that life, and they’ll swear there’s nothing else they’d rather do. As long and as hard and as tiring as it is, it’s so rewarding.

I just got myself another cold beer—working on a pretty nice buzz at the moment—and I’m wandering around the property, taking everything in. It’s nearly dark at this point, but I don’t care. There’s a picnic table next to a huge oak tree. Jumping up, I take a seat on top of it, setting my beer down as I lean back, palms flat on the table behind me, glancing up at the night sky. No matter how many times I look up and see it, I’m never not in awe of a starlit sky. I’ve noticed the stars are visible at the ranch, but back in Texas, we lived pretty close to the city, so it was rare we saw the stars. At least not like this.

It's beautiful, and I don’t think I’ll ever get sick of it.

“What the hell you doing all the way over here, Addams?”

At the sound of Shooter’s deep, gruff voice, my head snaps over in his direction, eyes colliding with his baby blues as he stops directly in front of me. They’re glossy and a little bloodshot, letting me know he’s probably as tipsy as I am—if not more so. I’ve done my best to steer clear of him all day. It wasn’t hard to do since Daisy and I helped Clem’s family with whatever they needed.

“Just came over here for a moment by myself,” I murmur as he surprises me by sitting beside me. He isn’t close enough that we’re touching, but my heart rate picks up, nonetheless. “Why do you care?”

Holding up his hands in mock innocence, he says, “I was just asking. Calm down.”

He’s been smoking. I can smell the tobacco wafting off of him. But more than that, I can smell a scent of what can only be described as whollyhim. It’s fresh, a little spicy, and so dang intoxicating. I hate how much I enjoy it.

“What about you?” I ask timidly. “Why are you all the way over here instead of over there where everyone else is?”

Shooter shrugs lazily before taking a drink from his can. “A little peopled out, I guess.”

“You, Shooter I-love-to-be-center-of-attention Graham, are peopled out?”

He drags his gaze to meet mine, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Yeah,” he replies with a chuckle. “Why is that so hard to believe?”

“I don’t know. You just always seem to enjoy being around people and socializing and telling people what a fantastic bronc rider you are.”

He throws his head back onto his shoulders, barking out a laugh. “That’s business, baby. My professional mask.” I don’t miss the way he calls mebaby, or the way it makes my stomach flutter. “But let’s go back to the most important part… you think I’m a fantastic bronc rider?”

A cocky, suggestive waggle of his brows has me rolling my eyes and groaning. “God, you’re so full of yourself.”

“I can be full of something else, if you’d prefer.”

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