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T here’s something about quiet that doesn't sit right with me.

Not the peaceful kind—the hush after a good ride, the silence when your body aches and your blood’s still buzzing with victory. I like that kind. That’s earned.

No, I mean the kind of quiet that settles in after a storm. When everyone’s healed, home, and playing house for a while. When there ain’t no circuits to run, no scores to settle, and no damn reason to keep your boots on but habit.

We’re in the off-season. The Savage Eight are back at the ranch. Rhett’s limping less, Willow’s smiling more. Knox and Blaze are fixing up the arena fence, Jace’s been training bulls before sunrise, and even Ghost let someone hug him the other day. Shit’s wild.

Me?

I’m healed. Mostly. Got the clearance last week.

And I’m itchin’. Like my bones know I’m not built to sit still. Like the bulls in the pen can smell me comin’ and they’re already getting mean about it.

I’m ready to ride.

So I head to the only place that ever feels close to normal when we’re not on tour—the bar down in town. Same neon sign buzzin’ like a bad idea, same pool table with the warped corner, same jukebox full of heartbreak and whiskey.

Only tonight, there’s something different.

Or someone.

She walks in like the chaos followed her, and she liked it that way.

Dark red lipstick. Tight jeans. Boots that look broken in but deadly. Long chestnut hair curled wild and free—and eyes that don’t belong in this dusty-ass town. Sharp. Too sharp.

Cassidy Hart.

She tells me her name like it’s a dare.

I offer her a drink and a crooked smile. She takes the drink. Doesn’t smile back.

Intrigued? Hell yeah.

But there’s something about her. Something that makes the hair on the back of my neck twitch. Like she knows more than she should. Like she’s watching everyone in the bar at once.

Like she’s hiding something behind those damn eyes.

I should walk away.

But that ain’t my style.

So I lean in closer, tip my hat back, and flash her the kind of grin that’s gotten me into more trouble than I care to count.

“You look like a woman runnin’ from something, darlin’. Good thing I’m the kind of trouble you run to.”

She laughs then, low and dangerous. “You’ve got no idea, cowboy.”

And just like that, I know.

The circuit might be over.

But my story’s just gettin’ started.