Page 30 of Sexting the Cowboy
“My ego’s bridle-broke,” I tell her.
“That so?”
“Mostly.” I drop my voice, just for me and her. “Depends who’s holding the reins.”
She finally glances up, and for half a second we’re the only two people in the entire county. Her eyes are clear and sharper than they have any right to be. They make me want to tell the truth I hide in jokes. The cut is nothing. The heat is nothing. The entire festival is something I can hear but not feel. All I feel is the gravity between two people who haven’t decided what to do with it yet.
Her lashes flicker. “Hold still,” she says, and her thumb presses just above the wound to steady my skin. I do as I’m told. I’ve done worse for less reward.
Blaze kicks her heel against the leg of the stool and sings a little under her breath to keep herself from saying what she’s thinking. Jaden straightens the pile of gauze again just to give privacy the fiction it needs.
“Stitches?” I ask.
“Steri-strips and glue. You don’t deserve my best thread.”
“I like you mean.”
“Don’t make me give you the cheap tape.”
“I like cheap tape if you’re the one ripping it off.”
She snorts before she can stop herself, and it’s the prettiest sound I’ve heard this week. She finishes the last strip and leans back to admire her work like a carpenter deciding a shelf won’t fall. “You’re patched,” she says. “Try not to roll in gravel for a few hours.”
“No promises,” I say, and I’m about to say something else ill-advised when the tent flap slaps open and Ford blows in like a weather system.
“There you are,” he says, breath and gel and agency all in one piece. “Brick, what the hell—Blaze texted me from three feet away like a teenager with a secret. You good? You bleeding? You concussed? Tell me what partnership liability I’m dealing with.”
“Hi, Ford,” Blaze says, sweet as lemonade. “He’ll live.”
Ford looks from her to the bandage to me to Annie, clocks the half inch of air between her and my knee, and recalibrates his scolding into business. He appreciates efficiency if nothing else. “Are you okay?”
“According to the doctor.”
He turns to Annie like the legal department disguised as a man. “Is he okay?”
She wipes her gloves on a towel and gives him a look I wish I could frame. “Yeah. He’s fine.”
I spread my hands. “That’s what all the girls say about me.”
For a heartbeat I think I’ve overstepped, but she laughs—really laughs—head tipping, eyes going soft. It hits me like a fist in the chest, and I don’t even mind the bruise.
Ford exhales a little. “All right. You’re back on for the short go if you want it. Sponsors are twitchy, but they’ll unclench if I tell them you’re still pretty. You have enough shirts to keep that covered so no one knows? Or do I need to go shopping for you?”
“I’m set,” I say and stand. Annie’s hand hovers in case I’m dumb, and I make a show of not needing it even though I want to catch her fingers just to see if she’ll let me. “Doc says I can ride. I’ll listen to the doc.”
“Good,” Ford says. To Annie, “We appreciate you.”
“Try keeping him off the animals if you want him to live,” she says, dry as the Utah wind.
He blinks, recalibrates again, points at me without looking. “Come on, Brick. We’ve got five minutes to pretend you’re going to live.”
Blaze hops off the stool and kisses my shoulder very carefully around the bandage. “Don’t be dumb out there.”
“Family trait,” I tease. “It’s just a matter of degree.”
“Keep it at a manageable degree.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
