Page 9 of Buckin' Around

Ipull into the family estate driveway like I do every Thursday night for family dinner. Thirty minutes late. Thursday night because my sister has her evening shifts on Friday nights, not because I need to travel those days. Or planning based on anything related to me, for that matter.

Stacey Lockwood is the diamond out of the two children my parents had. A law degree underway and a part-time volunteer position. Her Friday nights are spent helping people she’ll never see again, but it will look stellar on her résumé.

Nope. Vivian and Noel Lockwood would rather stick the salad fork—that’s the one on the outside of the cutlery set to your left—into an eye socket and rotate it before admitting to any of their country club friends their son is a bull rider. Or a college dropout.

I’m in no rush. I would rather use half of my week training for the events where I’m accepted for who I am over trying to twist myself into my father’s idea of a Lockwood man.

My hands tighten around the wheel of my black RAM 2500 Limited. The white Stetson that would otherwise cover my hair, which is tonight loaded with product to show off my “freakishly Ken-doll features,” as Brady calls them, rests on the rack overthe backrest of the long bench seat. Not the usual factory configuration for a brand-new pickup, but I wanted old school, and I could afford custom.

Well, my family could.

Snow falls outside the truck, and I brace myself for another night of boredom interspersed with disappointment and criticism.

Some days I truly believe I was born into the wrong family.

Stace’s silver Tesla whistles to a stop by my truck before the sound disappears altogether.

I was late, but now we’re both just tardy. Is Stacey trying to cover for me in her own way?

She’s out of her car and tapping on my window a second later. Her auburn hair, an asset inherited from our father’s side, is styled into a wavy locks. And her face, perfectly painted on... She could give Montgomery, our circuit bull fighter, some pointers.

I kill the engine and push out from the truck as she steps back.

“Why are you sitting in the driveway?” Her smile tips up as she reaches to mess up my hair.

It’s called procrastinating, Stace.

I slap her hand away. “Ah! Don’t even think about it. I’m not doing this shit again.”

“You look better messy, big brother.” She winks before opening the passenger door to her car.

Why is she?—

A woman steps out, looking around as if she’s been transported to another time and place, not Thursday night dinner with the most predictable people on the entire planet.

She’s a breath shorter than Stace, with dark eyes and the longest dark hair I’ve ever seen. Her skin is paler, and her petiteframe is huddled in a long coat that looks set to swallow her whole.

“Oh, Spence, this is Riley. She’s my new roommate, and she’s here for a little while working on her postgrad.”

Of course she is.

Of course my sister . . .

Riley holds out a hand, her face unreadable as she says, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Spencer.”

Is that . . . ?

Irish?

Stacey laughs. “Spencer probably won’t understand you unless you drawl or grunt. Spends way too much time with cowboys.”

Apparently, my face didn’t get the “it’s rude to stare and pull faces at the new friend of your sister’s” memo, because Riley retracts her offered hand and frowns. “You don’t look like a cowboy?”

Holy damn, that accent.

“He wishes,” Stace leans in and whispers to her, grabbing her hand and leading her toward the front door. “Anyway, now we’re all late. We should make an appearance before one of them has a fit.”

Riley’s long dark hair sways down her back. She’s shorter than Stace by at least four inches, making her at least six to eight shorter than me. I feel like a towering ogre as I walk up behind her and reach around to ring the doorbell.