Page 58 of Homebound

I spot him in an instant.

He’s sitting in the front row, wearing jeans, a white T-shirt, and his straw Stetson cowboy hat, but he’s not alone. There’s a woman next to him with golden hair that matches her tan skin.

She’s beautiful, but they look like they could be siblings. Except, the way she’s tightly gripping his jean-clad thigh is definitely not how I’d touch my brother if I had one.

She says something, and Wyatt leans in closer so she can whisper in his ear. He’s close enough that her lips brush his stubbled jaw. A sharp pang pierces my gut. It rivals the swooping lurch I get when I’m thrown off a bull, and I can’t stand the feeling.

It stings.

Her hand climbs higher and higher up his thigh, and…

Wyatt shifts out of her reach, putting distance between them and turns to me, almost like he can feel my stare on him. My whole body relaxes when our eyes meet.

A huge grin spreads across his face as he gives me two thumbs-up. You got this, he mouths.

I smile back for him, and only him. Thank you, I mouth back.

He blows me a kiss, and I swear teeny butterflies start to flutter in my stomach. I feel like a girl with a crush back in elementary school, looking at him. How the hell is that even possible? I’ve known him for over two decades.

After overhearing what Brodie said, those two thumbs-up mean more to me than he’ll ever know. But when my name is called, and I climb on the back of the brown-and-white-colored Tacoma, I’m still thinking about those doubt-soaked words.

As much as I try not to let people get me down, sometimes, they still sink their claws into my confidence.

I blame that for the reason I face-plant into the dirt after six and a half seconds. It’s longer than I’ve ever stayed on, except it’s still not enough.

But hey, progress is progress. Maybe Wyatt’s positivity is rubbing off on me after all.

23

I KNOW WHAT YOU NEED

WYATT

“Come on, Killer, don’t be like that. You’ll get ’em next time,” a cowboy in dark chaps says as I stride up to the rodeo stalls.

Dakota’s fall hadn’t been all that bad, but I still need to see her to make sure she’s okay, so I headed straight for the back pens after she finished.

Now, she’s the center of attention in a circle of fringe chaps and straw hats. The bull riders are the rock stars of the rodeo, so they tend to stick together, picking each other up after a bad ride, while also keeping to themselves.

There are a few little brown curls flying around her face, and I’ll never know how she manages to look so fucking stunning after getting thrown off a bull, but she does, and she does it well.

Another cowboy drapes an arm around her shoulder, and the move has my jaw tightening, but I’m not going to do anything about it because, for all I know, this guy could have also been stuck in the friend zone for over a decade.

Turns out, I don’t have to do anything since she shrugs him off herself. “Get your arm off me. I don’t want to hear it, Brodie. I’m fine.”

I can hear the wobble in her voice, but I don’t think they can.

The other cowboy smacks her shoulder. Her glare magnifies.

“You could always try practicing on some easier bulls again,” Brodie says. “It’s not like you’re on a time crunch. You can go for the PBR draft in a couple of years.”

She’s quiet.

Fuming.

The guy, Brodie, slowly lets go of her, taking a step back. Then another, and another. Until eventually, she grits out, “I’ll make sure to consider that next time, but just so you know, I will be gunning for the draft. I’ve got my sights set on the Austin Rattlers, so you can expect to see me on those aggressive bulls again.”

Brodie holds up his hands in an I Swear I’m Not Guilty gesture. “Goddamn, Killer, I was only trying to be nice.”