Page 71 of The Wildest Ride

“I gave up because I was a girl.”

Her words hung heavy and ridiculous in the air until AJ said, “That’s quite the statement.”

Lil chuckled, “No, no. I don’t mean girls give up. I gave up because I’m a girl and I couldn’t ride bulls.”

AJ smiled. “You’re not really making your case stronger.”

The joke earned a full laugh from Lil and AJ felt like he’d just earned another buckle.

“I’m a great bull rider,” she said, continuing, “even better back then—more fire, less caution. But no one would let me compete in professional rough stock events outside of the INFR.”

“You could have done barrel racing.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “Unless that was too girly for a tough cowpoke like you?”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

He didn’t think he’d ever noticed her doing that before.

“Not at all,” she said, adding, “I’m an excellent barrel racer, too, which you’ll see soon enough. I just wasn’t willing to settle for almost when it came to rodeo.”

Her words sank into him and he understood—in his forever-aching shoulder, his long-ago healed bones that still hurt, and in the rhythm of his heart. They gave voice to the same part of him that could see himself doing rodeo, and nothing else, for the rest of time.

Though at the moment his mind wasn’t having any trouble coming up with other things for him to do.

His eyes found Lil’s and they both paused. Their breath synchronized and deepened until her chest’s rise and fall became a gravitational pull. He fought the urge, but lost, his gaze drifting lower.

Her black Western shirt didn’t offer much for the imagination to work with, but he looked nonetheless, noting her slight shivers.

“Why didn’t you say you were cold?” he asked, roughly cutting into the soft sounds of fire crackling against the night.

“What?” Lil looked down, startled. “Oh. I guess I hadn’t noticed.”

AJ lifted an eyebrow. “Well, you’re cold.”

She laughed. “Just not much for complaining, I guess.”

“Or asking for help,” AJ said gruffly as he stood, walking to the saddlebag and rummaging through until he found the sheep’s wool–lined jean jacket he’d packed for the challenge.

“Here.” His fingers brushed against her skin as he handed her the jacket, sending a jolt of electricity up his arm.

Her eyes glittered in the firelight, and her skin felt like some kind of hybrid of silk and baby powder, far softer than any bull rider had a right to. Especially one as good as she was.

This close to her, the vanilla bourbon scent that was hers whispered its way to his nose and he took a deep breath.

Beneath her clothes, her body was defined and strong, he knew, like an Olympic athlete’s.

She might be petite, but he’d never have to worry about breaking a woman like her.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, though, he said, “Your braid is loose.”

It was true. The sleek line was messier than he’d ever seen it. Even the tightest coif wasn’t a match for getting dragged off a horse.

“I can help you with it,” he offered.

Eyeballing him like he’d grown horns and a pencil ’stache, she said, “You do hair now?”

He grinned and shrugged. “Pays to be diversified.”

Her gray eyes narrowed to slits. “You got a lot of practice, then?”

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