Page 77 of Riding the Storm
“Trust me, those boys weren’t just being nice.”
She raises a brow. “Jealous, Mr. Raintree?”
“I just know their type,” I say, leaning on the counter. “Especially Porter Lane. He’s trouble.”
“So are you,” she fires back.
“Exactly. That’s how I know,” I say, “and you’re only here to handle one cocky cowboy this weekend.”
That gets a reaction. Her head snaps up, mouth parting like she’s about to throw something sharp. But instead, she just smirks, slow and dangerous.
“Good thing,” she says. “Because you’re a full-time job.”
I laugh under my breath, rubbing a hand over the back of my neck.
Her eyes flick to mine. I don’t know what it is about her that gets under my skin. Maybe it’s how she doesn’t try to impress me. Maybe it’s that she sees through the bullshit version of me everyone else buys. Whatever it is, it’s starting to stick—deep.
The door flies open, and the sound makes her jump slightly.
The girls enter, carrying trays of greasy food that we barely have time to scarf down before being wrangled to our seats.
The roar of the crowd still hums in my ears, long after the last cheer fades. The arena’s still crackling with excitement like a live wire, even though the event ended over an hour ago. I’m standing off to the side, watching Bryce sign autographs for the mob.
The line stretches across the dirt—cowboys, fans, a few women dressed like they came here to be noticed—and Bryce handles them all with easy confidence. Every handshake, every photo, everythank you, ma’amsounds smooth, practiced.
But when a little kid steps up, that’s when he changes.
Every time a boy or girl approaches, he drops to a knee or scoops them up, says something that makes them laugh. And that’s when I see it—the real smile. The one that doesn’t belong to the cameras or the sponsors. It hits different. Makes something twist in my chest I don’t have a name for.
The crowd goes wild again when Porter Lane passes by with his trophy buckle. Axle came in second. I saw the flash of frustration in Axle’s eyes before he masked it, giving Porter a congratulatory slap on the back after he barely skated past him in points. In all fairness, Axle rode a much meaner bull than Porter, but a win’s a win.
I turn back just as Porter saunters up next to me.
He follows my gaze to Bryce, who’s shaking hands with a couple of reporters. “Look at him,” he says, nodding at Bryce. “It’s crazy that the only one anyone wants to talk to around here didn’t even ride.”
His voice carries a mix of admiration and something sharper. Envy maybe.
“The crowd sure does love him,” I say.
“Yeah,” Porter answers, glancing toward a group of women eyeing Bryce like he’s dessert. “Especially the ladies.”
A pack of giggling blondes sidles up next to him, proving his point.They’re wearing matching tank tops withSave a Horse, Ride a Cowboyprinted across the front. Porter grins, tipping his hat to them.
“Classy,” I mutter.
Axle and Royce appear a moment later. Axle still covered with arena mud.
Royce slings an arm around my shoulders, pulling me into a hug. “Hell of a show, huh, coz?”
“Sure was. You guys looked amazing out there,” I say. I smile at Axle. “You nearly won.”
“Nearly don’t pay the bills,” Axle grumbles.
“You’ll get him next time,” I say, and his eyes soften when he sees how hard I’m trying to cheer him up.
Finally, the line around Bryce starts thinning. He signs one last poster, shakes a few more hands, and then he’s walking toward us.
Porter crosses his arms. “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour.”
