Page 164 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
“You two are assholes,” Ridge says, but there’s warmth in his tone.
We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, passing the bottle around. The cicadas continue their chorus, and somewhere in the distance, one of the horses nickers.
The bottle makes another round, and I notice it’s getting low. We’ve been out here longer than I realized, the temperature dropping enough that I pull the blanket tighter around my shoulders.
The stars wheel overhead, and gradually, I feel the shift in energy. The fear is still there, but it’s tempered now by determination. By love. By the understanding that win or lose, we’re in this together.
“We should sleep,” Ridge finally says when the bottle is empty and Cash is yawning every thirty seconds.
We stand, joints protesting from sitting on hard wood. “Whatever happens tomorrow—” Ridge starts.
“Is going to be great,” I interrupt. “Because we’re together. Because we fought for this. Because Rose would be proud.”
Inside, we gravitate toward the master bedroom without discussion. The two king beds pushed together are ridiculous but perfect for us. I crawl into the middle, immediately surrounded by warm Alpha bodies.
Ridge curls around me from behind. Walker’s hand finds mine in the darkness, squeezing once. Cash is in front of me, his back to me, and I embrace him, snuggling my face against his neck.
“We’re going to be okay,” Ridge whispers.
“We’re going to be more than okay,” I whisper back. “We’re going to be legendary.”
33
SOPHIA
Thunder Creek Arena pulses with an energy that makes my skin prickle. Every single seat is filled, people are in the aisles getting food and drinks, kids are perched on shoulders, and the noise is this constant thrum that vibrates through my chest. I’ve never seen anything like it and certainly never imagined I’d be at the center of it.
“Your hands are shaking,” Cash observes, his fingers interlaced with mine.
“That’s because you’re both cutting off my circulation,” I point out. Walker is gripping my other hand just as tightly, like I might disappear if they let go.
“We’re not that bad,” Walker protests, but he loosens his grip slightly.
“The radio station posted those photos they took from our interview,” Cash says, nodding toward a group of women wearing matching T-shirts with ourfaces on them. “And the calendars are already circulating.”
“Apparently, Mr. July is very popular,” Cash boasts, grinning and referring to one of his photos where he’s shirtless on a horse.
“I still think they photoshopped your abs,” Walker mutters.
“They didn’t need to,” I assure him, which makes him preen.
The truth is, seeing my cowboys’ faces on calendars being sold for the fundraiser is surreal. Four weeks ago, we were just trying to figure out how to save the ranch. Now we’re here, surrounded by thousands of people who care about our story.
“Sophia! Oh my God, Sophia!” a female voice calls out my name from somewhere in the distance behind us.
I turn toward a woman standing and waving frantically our way from four rows back, wearing a City Omega Blog T-shirt I set up and sold with quotes from my posts printed on it. This one saysI came for the ranch drama, stayed for the cowboy measurementsin bold pink letters.
“That’s, like, the twentieth person,” Walker observes quietly. “We’re basically celebrities now. Still processing the fact that thousands of people know about the measuring tape incident.”
“I’ve embraced it,” Cash says cheerfully. “Someoneasked me to autograph their tape measure in the parking lot.”
“You didn’t,” I gasp.
“I absolutely did. Even wrote ‘Size Matters’ above my signature.”
“Cash!”
“What? It’s good marketing. We should sell branded measuring tapes as fundraising merch.”
