Page 155 of Knot Your Problem, Cowboy
And then he kisses me, hard, hungry, the kind of kiss that tilts the whole world sideways. My palms press against his solid chest beneath me, hay sticking in our hair, and still I can’t bring myself to care.
This shouldn’t be real. It feels too much like the kind of dream I’ll wake up aching from. But the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the heat of his body caging me close, the sound of him groaning my name, none of that is a dream.
When he finally breaks away, his lips hovering a breath from mine, I whisper the only truth that matters.
“I don’t ever want to wake up.”
And from the way his arms tighten around me, neither does he.
30
SOPHIA
Thunder Creek Arena buzzes with pre-event energy as Walker parks his truck near the loading docks. It’s late afternoon, the heat of the day starting to break, and everywhere I look, there’s movement—vendors marking their spots for next week, workers testing sound equipment, and those posters…
God, those posters I created are everywhere.
Ridge’s image stares back from every surface, captured mid-ride, one hand high, body arched in perfect form as a huge bull bucks beneath him. It’s from his championship days, all raw power and grace.RIDGE’S LAST RIDEblazes across the top in bold red letters, with my addition underneath:Eight Seconds to Save Everything.
The date, nine days away, seems to scream at me.At the bottom isOne Champion. One Chance. One Ranch Worth Fighting For.
“Still think Ridge’s Last Ride sounds like a funeral?” Walker asks, catching me staring at one of the gigantic banners they’re hanging across the main entrance.
“Maybe a little,” I admit. “But it sells tickets, right?”
“That’s my practical girl.” He comes around to my side of the truck, and I drink in the sight of him. Worn jeans that hug him in all the right places, a blue Henley that stretches across his chest, hat tilted just enough to reveal those brown eyes that never fail to turn me on.
“See something you like?” he teases.
“Always,” I say, not even trying to hide it anymore. We’re past that. Past pretending we don’t affect each other, past the careful dance of new lovers. His hand finds mine immediately, fingers interlacing like they belong there.
“Come on,” he suggests, tugging me toward the loading area. “Bulls are arriving for next week. Want to get a look at what Ridge might be up against.”
“They don’t know which one he’ll ride yet?”
“Random draw, day of the event. Fair for everyone, all the riders coming to support Ridge get the same chance at an easy or hard bull. But I want to see what’s in the pool, get a feel for their temperaments.”
We walk past trailers where cowboys are unloading enormous bulls, and my heart rate kicks up. These aren’t like the cattle at our ranch. These animalsare pure muscle and attitude, bred for one purpose. The thought of Ridge on one of these tightens my chest.
“Jesus,” I breathe, watching a particularly large brindle bull slam against the side of his pen. “Ridge is actually going to climb onto one of these?”
Walker squeezes my hand. “You okay?”
“My heart is racing, and he’s not even here. How am I going to survive the actual event?”
“With us holding your hands,” he says simply. “Come on, let me check these boys out, then I’ll show you around while it’s still quiet.”
He guides me to a raised platform overlooking the holding pens, where someone with a clipboard is taking notes. Walker joins him, and they start discussing the bulls below, their stats, their tendencies, their rankings. I tune out the technical talk and just watch Walker work.
His forearms flex as he points to different bulls, and I remember how those arms felt around me last night when I fell asleep. How his hands?—
“Darlin’?”
I blink. He’s looking at me with amusement. “Sorry, what?”
“Asked if you wanted to see the behind-the-scenes area.”
“Oh. Yes. Sure.”
