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“You’re backstage at the pro rodeo tour,” Bodhi said flatly. “Who else could I be?”

The suit gulped. Had he ever been that young or earnest? Bodhi didn’t even want the letter. Nothing from a suit boded well. And he recognized the name of the law firm on the envelope.

“Hey, Bodhi, one of your women catch up to you? Junior on the way?” Jesse McDaniels, one of the newer and more aggressive bull riders on the tour, called out.

“Way he moves, he’s probably got half a dozen juniors and their hot skank baby mamas on the payroll,” Liam Henderson, who hung with Jesse, answered. They fist-bumped.

Jackasses. Bodhi swung around and headed for the door that led to the arena, assuming the suit would follow. He did.

Out into the main hall where people were already filing into the arena. He headed to a souvenir stand.

“Ah, Mr. McIntyre—I mean Ballantyne…” The suit hurried after him.

Bodhi had always been told he walked fast. He did everything fast except fuck.

“There.” He pointed to a huge banner of him on a bull, hanging down from the rafters. Probably not the best for identity since he had his helmet on and a mouth guard.

“Excuse me, darling.” Bodhi turned to a young woman setting out merchandise at a souvenir stand. “Mind if I show the suit here the program? Thirty seconds tops.” He engaged hisphoto with fanssmile.

“Sure.” She goggled at him, her gaze bouncing from his smile to his chest and then nervously back up again.

He found his page. Not hard since he signed it hundreds if not thousands of times each week.

Three young women, their hair poufed into lions’ manes, squealed. “It’s him. OMG, it’s him. It’s really him.”

They stopped and bounced and preened.

“Oh. My. God. You’re Bodhi Ballantyne. You are.”

“I am.” He smirked at the suit, who stared at the women like he’d never seen the species before.

Well, he probably hadn’t seen rodeo fangirls or buckle bunnies. They were their own breed, had their own category of phylum.

“Can we get a photo?”

“OMG, you’re hotter in person.”

“You’re practically naked. You should ride like that. You’re the best bull rider in the world!”

The words and squeals ran together, and Bodhi kept his smile in place. He could definitely be a dick. But not to fans. Ever.

He wasn’t the best bull rider in the world by a long shot. And if he rode shirtless he’d be the stupidest bull rider in the world and soon dead.

He posed for a few selfies with the women and then swung back around and waved to the security guard as he headed backstage, Suit—now dumbstruck—hurrying to catch up. His slick leather soles slid on the cement.

“Good enough ID?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bodhi held out his hand to take the letter. He folded it and jammed it in his back pocket.

Damn. Ashni Singh—his cousin’s girl—her long, thick hair swinging free behind her like a night sky entered the backstage from the arena.

“Bodhi, were you posing with fans shirtless?”

“I was.”

She stopped in her tracks and then looked him over. Then she walked toward him more slowly, considering.