Page 75 of Roped in Rawhide

Moe follows Reyna’s lead and begins to prance. “I guess we should’ve let them swim right away.”

Once we hit the shoreline, the pair practically leap into the water. Moe immediately starts to paw and slosh. Reyna dunks her nose in for a drink. I relax deeper in the saddle, tipping my face to the sky. Moments like these are priceless.

But the incessant buzzing from my phone shatters the serenity.

“Good grief,” Shiloh sighs. “Just answer him.”

“I’m teaching him delayed gratification.”

She hums to a disbelieving tune. “You’re teaching him to be a pain in my ass. Remind me never to get a boyfriend.”

“Chance isn’t my boyfriend,” I counter.

“Keep telling yourself that.” Her pointed gaze on my noisy bag makes a valid argument.

“Let me just tell him to zip it.” But first, I read the flood of texts he’s sent.

Best Dicking of My Life: Why did you stop typing?

Best Dicking of My Life: What were you going to say?

Best Dicking of My Life: Don’t leave me hanging.

Best Dicking of My Life: Please?

Best Dicking of My Life: Wildflower?

Best Dicking of My Life: Are you okay?

Best Dicking of My Life: Did you fall off or are you choosing to ignore me?

Best Dicking of My Life: I’m going to assume you fell off unless you respond in the next ten seconds.

Best Dicking of My Life: Please pick up the phone.

Best Dicking of My Life: I’m freaking out, baby.

And that’s not counting the five missed calls. He somehow found the restraint to hang up before filling my voicemail.

“He thinks I fell off,” I tell her. “Isn’t that ridiculous?”

“Super ridiculous.” But it doesn’t sound like she’s referring to Chance’s assumption.

My tongue sticks out at her. “I’m just going to reply super quick so he doesn’t actually come out here.”

Me: I’m fine. Calm down. I’m riding with Shy. This is meant to be quality girl time.

My focus is locked on the three bouncing dots that immediately appear once my message goes through. That’s the only reason I don’t realize Moe is pivoting until it’s too late. I’m slipping sideways before my fingers can wrap around the horn.

A loud splash is the soundtrack of my cocky confidence getting submerged. Embarrassment burns through me while water soaks me to the bone. My phone floats beside me, ridiculing my misplaced priorities. I snatch it before more damage can be done.

Moe sniffs me, nudging my shoulder like he’s concerned I’ve hurt more than my pride. After reassuring him with a pet along his blaze, I lurch from the river like a drowned rat.

Shiloh is busy documenting my epic fail, snapping countless pictures. Her laughter is infectious even when it’s at my expense. I find myself giggling as if this was a planned joke.

“Can you repeat the part where it’s ridiculous that Chance thought you fell off? I want to take a video,” she teases.

Meanwhile, I’m yanking at my jeans that are sticking to me like paste. A very uncomfortable sensation in an unlikely place halts my wiggling. “Aww, shit. There’s sand in my underwear.”