Page 27 of Tempted By the Broken Cowboy
“C’mon, sweetheart, give us a show!” some drunk hollers, and I damn near launch the glass in my hand at his head.
Instead, I drag my gaze back to her. She leans back when the bull dips forward, moves with it like she’s got rhythm in her bones. Every second she stays on, my irritation sharpens into something worse—admiration.
This was supposed to break her. Instead, she’s shining.
The bull kicks harder. She loses a handhold, and the crowd gasps, but she recovers quick, gripping tighter, jaw set. Stubborn as sin. That Atwood streak written in every line of her body.
She’s fire. Pure fire.
And then, in a blur, the machine bucks high and twists sharp. She’s airborne. She crashes down on the padded floor with a thud that knocks the air out of me as much as it does her. The crowd bursts into cheers and groans. I’m already moving.
By the time she sits up, cheeks flushed, chest heaving, I’m crouched in front of her. “You good?” My voice is rougher than I mean it to be.
She smirks, like I’m the fool for asking. “Better than good. I lasted longer than you thought, didn’t I?”
I open my mouth, but no smart remark comes out. All I can do is stare at her—sweaty, laughing, hair wild—and think, God help me, this woman might just be trouble I can’t outrun.
The second Quinn is off the mat and brushing herself down, I hear the taunts from the bar crowd.
“Your turn, Morgan!”
“Let’s see if you can last longer than the pretty little lady!”
I shoot them a glare that shuts a few up, then toss my hat aside and step up to the bull. But it’s not the crowd I’m performing for. It’s her.
Quinn stands off to the side, flushed and glowing, watching me with her arms crossed like she’s daring me to do better. I intend to.
I swing onto the bull, settle my grip, roll my shoulders once, and nod to the operator. The machine roars to life.
The first jolt snaps through me, but I’ve done this before. My body knows how to move with the rhythm. My thighs clamp down, my arm cuts the air, and I ride the surge like I was born in this saddle.
The crowd starts shouting, stomping. Every time the bull bucks harder, I answer with a sharper lean, a stronger hold, feeding off their energy. And every now and then, I let my gaze cut to Quinn—her lips parted, eyes locked on me, torn somewhere between impressed and annoyed.
I dig in harder.
The machine twists viciously, but I stick like glue, grinding down on every move. It’s not just about balance anymore. It’s about proving something. To Jace. To my old man. To Wrangler Creek. And maybe most of all, to her.
Finally, after what feels like forever, I throw one last defiant lift of my arm and hop off on my own terms. The bull jerks empty, the crowd erupts, and I land steady on my boots with a grin.
Winner.
I grab my hat and tip it toward Quinn, still catching her staring. “That’s how it’s done, sweetheart.”
Her eyes narrow, but there’s fire there too. She hates that I won. She hates that I look good doing it. And damn if I don’t like the thought of her hating me just enough to keep watching.
The crowd’s still buzzing when I step down, their shouts and laughter chasing me across the floor. Quinn doesn’t clap. Doesn’t smile. Just stands there with that stubborn tilt of her chin like she’d rather swallow nails than admit I won.
I tug my hat back on and stroll up to her, slow on purpose. “So,” I drawl, “a bet’s a bet.”
Her eyes flash, and for a second I think she’s going to argue. Then her lips press into a thin line and she nods once. “Fine. You won.”
The way she says it, like the words taste foul, makes me grin wider. “Which means you owe me a prize.”
A few guys nearby whistle at that, and Quinn’s face flushes crimson. She glares at them, then at me. “You’re not getting that here.”
I raise a brow. “What, afraid of an audience?”
She steps in close, so close I can smell the hint of her perfume under all the whiskey and smoke. “I’m not afraid of anything. But if I’m doing this, we’re doing it somewhere… private.”
