Page 101 of One Last Rodeo

“Last night. I stood outside your sister’s house for an hour.”

My breath catches. He did? He didn't knock. I didn't know. How did he find Isla’s condo? What was he doing out there?

“I should’ve been sleeping. Should’ve been using that damn app you put on my phone to study scores, tips and stats, and prepare for tonight’s ride.” His jaw tightens. “But I just couldn’t leave you alone.”

He shakes his head.

“Fuck. I miss you.” He sighs. “Eventually I tore myself away from where I knew you were sleeping. I decided you needed space,” he continues. “That you didn’t need me knocking, stirring shit up, making things worse. That maybe if I gave you time, you’d realize none of what I said and did was intent on hurting you.”

I'm quiet. I wait for him to finish.

“And then I realized,” he says quietly, “that I never properly apologized.”

He sets his hat on the desk before pushing to his feet. Then he rounds the desk, and before I can process what he's doing, he lowers himself onto one knee in front of me.

I instinctively turn my chair to face him. My fingers tighten around the armrests, gripping them like they're the only thing keeping me from reaching for him. And suddenly something shifts inside me between the racing of my heart and his warm eyes looking up at me.

I know he's not proposing. That would be ridiculous. Completely unhinged. Even for Jensen. But this is the position someone takes when they ask for forever. It's a position of vulnerability. Of surrender. Of laying your heart at someone else's feet and hoping they don’t stomp on it.

My ex-fiancé never knelt for me when he proposed. He'd stayed standing. The problem isn’t that he’d never kneeled during the proposal, it’s that he’d never bent for me at all.

And no, I don’t think kneeling is a prerequisite for love or commitment. I don’t think proposals need traditions like asking parents for permission and exchanging rings, and I fully believe that if a woman wants to, she should be the one to propose. But there’s something aboutthis—the way Jensen is looking up at me like I hold something vital in my hands,his heart—that reaches somewhere deep inside me. Somewhere aching. Somewhere I didn’t realize needed to be seen this badly.

I know now that I want a man to kneel for me when he's proposing. I don't know if that'll be Jensen, but God, I sure hope that it is.

“Catalina,” he says, his voice rough, stripped bare. Then, softer he says, “Kitty.” His eyes search my face, dark and earnest and a lot desperate. I feel the same way.

“How am I supposed to go out there and ride when my Pulse is mad at me?” His throat bobs with a swallow. “When my Pulse won't look at me the way she used to?”

I inhale softly.

“I fucked up,” he continues. “I’ve fucked up before in my life, but this—this was a bad one. I know that. I hurt you in ways that, you’re right, I’ll never fully understand.” His jaw tightens. “Some of it might’ve been done unconsciously. That doesn’t excuse it. It still happened. I'll do better. I promise.”

He shakes his head once, like he hates himself for it.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m so fucking sorry.”

Everything about his words are sincere and I know he means them. I also know he’s not the only one to blame here.

“You don’t have to forgive me today,” he goes on. “Or tomorrow. Or next week. But I need to know if there’s somewhere inside you—some part—thatmightforgive me in a few weeks. And that understands I'm so sorry if I ever made you feel like your experience and strength was doubted.”

His voice cracks.

“Because I’m dying here,” he admits. “And the thought of you with another man, of you going back to your ex...” He swallows hard. “Pulse, it’s killing me to think of you with anyone but me.”

His hands lift, hovering for half a second like he’s asking permission without words, and then they settle on my knees in a squeeze. The contact sends something hot and sharp through me. Like a key locking into place. I don’t pull away. I don’t tell him to back off. I melt into him again.

“I just need a chance,” he says. “Take the space you need. I’ll give it to you. But tell me you’ll try. Tell me you won’t go back to him. Tell me you remember Tennessee, Denver, and everywhere in between.” His thumbs press into the inside of my knee lightly, like he can’t help himself.

“Tell me you’ll hang on for a bit. Let the anger simmer. Let it fade. And when it does… let me know so I can come calling on you again.” His eyes lift to mine, open and pleading.

“Maybe next time,” he adds, softer, “I take you on a real date. Even if it’s this fall. Even if it’s in the wintertime.” A shaky breath. “I just need a little hope before I get on the back of a bull that wants to kill me.”

No one has ever been this honest with me, and for all the ways that I've valued honesty, bluntness and transparency in others, I never knew how it would feel to receive it like this. No one has ever spoken to me this raw, and with so much truth.

I don’t hesitate. “Yes.”

His eyes brighten instantly, just a fraction—but it’s enough to feel like sunrise. “Yes, to all that?”