Page 32 of One Last Rodeo

I roll my eyes, but my pulse flickers. It’s almost like he notices it because his gaze drops right to my neck before moving back to my eyes.

“Fishing,” he starts, “is one of my favorite things to do when I get time off work. My grandma has this lake, and I love sitting out there with nothing but the bugs humming and my line cast.”

I try to imagine him doing that. The image fits with what little I know of Jensen.

“Marriage and kids are something I want. Badly.” He continues without pausing. “Most people think I hate my mom for choosing drugs, and my dad for choosing her, but I don’t. I’m glad my grandma raised me. I don’t hold any ill will toward either of them. I wouldn't have gotten into riding if my parents raised me.”

“That’s only four things.”

Something shifts in his posture. A hesitation. Like the fifth is something he doesn’t say to just anyone and maybe has never said out loud before.

I take another sip of my drink, letting the burn warm my chest, knowing I should stop because he’s starting to look less like a reckless athlete and more like… a friend? A hot crush?

I’m not really sure.

Warmth in his skin. Broad shoulders filling the chair. Every brush of his kneecap against mine is lighting a fuse I don’t want to acknowledge. That’s when I realize he’s been touching me subtly all night. A hand on my back, a knee on mine. And normally I’d be recoiling. Normally, I'd be noticing. But for some reason I’m not. I don’t mind it. I like it. It’s intimate without being over the top.It feels natural.

“The reason I got into bull riding…” he begins.

“You said it was because of riding horses?”

“…Yes.” He meets my stare. “And because I wasn’t good at anything else.”

“I’m sure that’s not possible.”

He pauses again, then leans back like he’s bracing himself. “I have dyslexia. Found out young. I’d switch numbers and letters in all my homework. Straight D student. Could hardly pass second grade. Grandma did the work with me so I wouldn’t get held back, and I cheated on most of my tests. I’m not proud of it. It was just the only way I could finish school.”

My lips part. It’s not out of pity, but surprise. Because there’s something raw in his voice, stripped down and unguarded in a way I’ve never heard from him.

He takes a drink of water, his throat working as he swallows. I shouldn’t be staring at the way it moves, or at the faint line of sweat that’s across his forehead because of how warm it is out here. Even his forehead sweat is attractive. I notice the slight bounce of his leg.

He’s nervous?

“It’s why I don’t check the scoreboard after my rides,” he continues. “I’ll mess up the numbers. Don’t want to get excited or pissed for no reason. It’s partly why I don’t take phone numbers when women offer. It’s why I barely text. You basically nailed it when you called me out. Couldn’t cut it as a carpenter, couldn’t cut it as a businessman, couldn’t cut it as anything but the guy who gets on the back of a bull that wants to kill him and rides for eight seconds. Because that’s the only thing that I was good at.”

“I’m sorry… for before. I was rude about you riding. It was—”

He shakes his head. “I’m sure it all looks pretty foolish from the outside, riding an animal that you purposely piss off every day for sport.”

I drop my gaze, but his knee nudges mine again.

“Hey. Don’t sweat it,” he says with a smile when I look up at him.

It's playful, flirty, something that I've never experienced before. It’s also really mature how he just lets it all go. And the most dangerous part is that it works. Him touching me doesn’t bother me. It settles something I didn’t know was restless.

For a guy who I don’t agree with, I’m surprisingly calm around him.

“Dyslexia doesn’t mean you can’t do something other than bull riding. It’s very common.”

He smiles softly. “I know. But school was so hard for me, and sitting still was difficult. Bull riding’s the only thing that’s ever made sense.”

He nudges my knee again. This time leaving his leg pressed up against mine.

“You like touching,” I say, my eyes staring at where we’re connected.

A slow grin unfolds on his face. “That’s not a secret. I’m from the South. We love hugs. I love handholding. I love kissing. I love…” His eyes darken, the rest of the sentence melts into heat between us.

Fucking? Was he going to say fucking?I bet he does love fucking. I bet he’s good at it, too.