Page 49 of Riding the Storm
“Sweet dreams, my ass,” I mutter, stomping up the steps.
Inside, the house is quiet, except for the faint hum of the fridge, the ticking of the old clock in the hall, and Shelby’s and Harleigh’s whispers as they head up to their rooms. Grandma, Grandpa, and Daddy all long retired for the night. I climb the stairs, my head spinning a little—not from the tequila, but from him.
A complication I don’t need in my life.
In my room, I peel off my dress and toss it over a chair. My boots land with a heavy thud on the floor. After quickly showering, I pull on one of my old oversize Wildhaven Storm Ranch T-shirts and crawl into bed.
The sheets are cool against my skin.
But sleep isn’t about to happen. I’m still too keyed up.
My brain’s too full—of that kiss, his gravelly voice, the feel of his hands on me, the look of satisfaction in his eyes when he found me wet for him.
With a sigh, I reach for my tablet on the nightstand. My thumb hovers for a second before curiosity wins.
I type his name into the search bar.
Bryce Raintree.
The results populate instantly—interviews, sponsorship ads, highlight reels, old rodeo footage. There are photos too—him grinning, hat tipped low, holding a shiny gold championship belt buckle high above his head.
I click on a video titledBryce Raintree: Best Rides of the PBR World Finals.
The screen lights up with motion and sound—the crack of the gate, the roar of the crowd, the thundering snort of a bull exploding out of the chute.
There he is.
Bryce, maybe five or more years ago, but still him. Wild hair, clean-shaven jaw set, one hand gripping the bull rope tight while the other is in the air, perfectly balanced. The power in his body is unreal—every muscle working in rhythm, fluid and strong, like he’s part of the animal.
The announcer’s voice booms over the crowd, “Eight seconds, ladies and gentlemen! Bryce Raintree takes the win at the PBR World Finals! You’re a world champion now, young man.”
The crowd goes wild. The camera zooms in on his face—sweaty, beaming, dust-coated.
He tips his hat to the fans, to the camera. That same grin he gave me in the bar flashes across the screen, and damn it if it doesn’t make my heart skip.
I pull my knees up to my chest, watching ride after ride, bull after bull, each one more violent than the last. Bryce never flinches. Never loses focus. He moves like he was born to do it, born to chase danger and flirt with the line between control and chaos.
And I get it.
I finally get it.
Why he’s cocky. Why he walks around like he’s invincible. Why that same wild spark in him draws me in, even when I know better.
Because there’s something about him that’s raw and fearless and a little bit untamed.
And maybe that’s what scares me most. Because somewhere deep down, I know I recognize it. Because I have all those same things whirling inside of me.
My door clicks open, and Shelby and Harleigh come bounding inside my room. Both of them with clean faces and dressed for bed.
Harleigh plops down beside me. “Whatcha watching?”
“Nothing,” I say as I try to click out of the screen, but she grabs the tablet from me.
“Whoa. Is that your cowboy?” Shelby climbs in beside her.
“He’s not my cowboy,” I say as I scoot over to make room for them.
“Could have fooled me,” Harleigh mumbles as she clicks to restart the footage.
