Page 217 of Boots, Bucket Lists & Bad Ideas
I force a smile, or half-smile.
Damn, who am I kidding? I’m sure it looks like a grumpy scowl.
I try to look everywhere else as we inch forward—the people, the ground, the sky, and a strawberry ride spinning next to us.
It’s pointless. My eyes keep drifting upward, tracking the slow rotation, as it pauses to load the next set of passengers.
If luck were on my side, we’d be the last to load. Things are looking good. We are close, and they’re still loading. But as we step up to the gate, the wheel starts spinning, sending the passengers off, and I realize we aren’t loading the last bucket; we’re loading first into the next ride.
Just.
Fucking.
Great.
It feels like no time has passed, and the attendant waves us to the first empty cabin.
“I secretly love Ferris wheels.” Jade’s steps have a little bounce in them. “The view from the top gives me that same rush as sitting on Onyx and staring at the wide open fields.”
My throat tightens, and my heart pounds harder with each step. We load inside, and I sit next to Jade on the bench seat, my arm resting on the edge of the window.
The damn thing lurches.
Alright, it’s slight, but it feels like the whole cabin is going to rock itself off.
The gears groan as it slowly ascends, loading people on. Each metallic creak reminds me of the height we’re gaining.
Ah, hell, we’re only up two spots, but shit, this is enough to cause severe damage already if the bucket dislodges and smashes to the ground.
Broken ribs, a punctured lung, and an epidural hematoma from the head hitting whatever it comes in contact with.
Memories flood me.
That night of my big game.
I remember my determination. I’d been so cocky, so stupid. I followed my pa into the equipment shed to tell him about Jade, but I wasn’t the only one there.
It happened fast—so fast—and I’ll never escape the sickening crack that night. Especially now, riding so high.
“Hart?”
“Yeah?” My voice croaks.
Not masculine.
Not cowboy rancher.
Not a protector.
But hell, I don’t care.
The ride stops periodically to load other passengers, sending a fresh wave of anxiety through me.
“You’re quiet,” she says.
I barely notice her thigh pressed against mine. We’re close on the vinyl seat, and I wish I could appreciate it. How long have I waited to be alone with her without fighting?
“Am I?” My knuckles tap restlessly on the frame.
