Page 74 of Riding the Storm
“Oh God,” I whisper, bolting upright.
The sheets are tangled around me, and my dress lies in a heap on the floor. My pulse kicks up as memories of last night flood my brain.
What did I do?
Before I can find my bearings, the bathroom door opens, and Bryce walks out—completely, unapologetically naked.
“Morning,” he says like it’s the most normal thing in the world. A towel hangs loose around his neck, beads of water clinging to the dark curls on his chest. “You planning to sleep all day?”
I glance around the dark room. “What time is it?”
He chuckles. “It’s almost noon.”
“What?!” I can’t remember the last time I slept past seven.
He smirks, unbothered. “Yep. You’d better shake a leg, darlin’. We’ve gotta be at the arena in less than an hour.”
“An hour?!” I scramble out of bed, clutching the sheet to my chest, looking for my suitcase. “Why didn’t you wake me?”
He grabs a pair of jeans, completely amused. “You looked so peaceful and content. Didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Peaceful? Well, I’m not peaceful now,” I shriek as I toss clothing onto the bed.
“Exactly.” He buttons his shirt, then grins over his shoulder. “Plus, I figured I’d shower first, make sure you didn’t use all the hot water, like you did yesterday.”
I throw a pillow at him. “You’re an ass.”
I storm into the bathroom, heart racing, and shut the door behind me. My reflection stares back—messy hair, swollen lips, flushed cheeks. I pull my hair away from my neck and start looking for any signs of purple. Nothing.
Thank God.
I lean against the counter, hands braced on the cool marble, and whisper to myself, “What the hell did you do, Charli? The first night? You could have put up a better fight than that!”
Through the door, I hear Bryce humming to himself.
And, damn it all, I like waking up to the sight and sound of him.
The arena hums like it’s already full, though the stands won’t see a single spectator for another couple of hours. Diesel fumes, dust, and the restless shuffle of livestock hang thick in the early afternoon air. The sounds of metal gates clanging and men calling to each other as they prepare for the evening’s festivities fuel something deep inside of me. I’ve only been off the circuit for a couple of months, but I miss it. Miss the anticipation and the adrenaline rush.
Charli walks beside me through the staging area, wearing a wine-colored V-neck T-shirt, tucked into a pair of faded jeans that are so worn that they’re practically molded to her curves. Her hair’s hanging down her back in soft waves, a cowboy hat pulled low over her brow. She doesn’t say much, but her eyes take everything in—the bulls, the riders, the crews running cables and cameras. She looks like she belongs here better than most of the men milling around.
We reach the Bull Rope Whiskey trailer, parked alongside the sponsor’s rigs. The damn thing’s slick—wrapped in matte black with the logo in copper script. It’s flanked by the Dry Canyon Distilling logo, and my name’s stenciled beneath.
Inside, cool air greets us. A couple of the Bull Rope PR girls are already waiting—smiles bright, tablets in hand.
“Mr. Raintree,” one of them chirps, “we’re so excited to have you officially wearing the brand today.”
I nod and give them a practiced half smile. They lead me toward the leather couch, where the new gear is laid out. A branded vest, a crisp button-down, a pair of leather chaps with fringe, and silver spurs catching the light.
“Miss, you can have a seat while we get him ready,” one of them says to Charli.
She drops onto the couch, crossing her legs. I catch the smirk on her lips when I pull off my T-shirt, tug on the green button-up, and slip into the vest. Her eyes trace the Bull Rope patch stitched across my chest before sliding up to meet mine.
“Nice,” she mutters.
The PR girls fuss—adjusting straps, dusting my shoulders, checking the fit of everything, switching out the brown chaps for a black pair. They’re professionals, but still, it feels strange, being dressed liked a kid.
“Let’s get the boots,” one says, crouching to open the box at my feet. She helps me step into a brand-new pair—black ostrich skin with a polished silver inlay.
