Page 7

Chapter Seven

EVERLY

The afternoon drags endlessly after the pole bending ends. The flag race won't start until six, prime time for maximum crowd drama, which leaves me with four hours to spin cotton candy while my stomach churns with nerves.

Bruno came in second. Second . Which means he's not the favorite anymore for tonight's blindfolded run.

“One pink lemonade cotton candy, please.” A little girl with pigtails bounces on her toes while her mother counts out change. It’s so hot that the sky is hazy and the air seems to shimmer. I force a smile and get to work.

Sweat pools between my breasts under the frilly apron.

Families move slower than usual, seeking shade wherever they can find it.

My hair sticks to the back of my neck despite being tied up, and moisture beads along my hairline.

Even the slightest breeze would be a blessing, but the air sits motionless, trapped between the mountains like we're all slowly baking in nature's oven.

My phone buzzes in my apron pocket. I ignore it until the mother and daughter walk away, then pull it out with sticky fingers.

Trent: Everly, don't ignore me. I saw on Instagram you’re at that hick fair. This whole cowboy thing isn't you. Call me.

My stomach clenches. Mila’s put up some photos and a story with me in it on her company Insta account. I had no idea Trent was following it.

Another buzz:

Trent: You're making a mistake. I know you better than anyone. This is just rebellion because of our break-up.

“You look like you've seen a ghost.” My brother approaches carrying a paper plate piled high with funnel cakes, powdered sugar already dusting his work shirt.

“When did you get here?” I shove my phone back in my pocket.

“Twenty minutes ago.” He takes a massive bite, closing his eyes in bliss. “Mrs. B outdid herself today. These are like little pieces of heaven.”

“You know you can't live on fried dough, right?”

“Watch me.” He polishes off half a funnel cake in three bites. “So point out the cowboy who's got my sister all twisted up?”

“Bruno's preparing for the final event.”

He studies my face. “You look like you're about to throw up. What's wrong?”

I pull out my phone and show him Trent's texts. Wilder's expression darkens as he reads. “This little shit just won't quit, will he?”

“He says he saw fair coverage online. What if he's right? What if this is just some kind of rebellion phase?”

Wilder shakes his head and picks up another funnel cake. “He’s just trying to get inside your head, Ev. Delete those texts and focus on your cowboy.”

But as the afternoon wears on, Trent's words echo in my head. This isn't you. You're making a mistake.

What if he's right? What if I'm just caught up in the fantasy of being someone worth risking everything for? What happens when the adrenaline fades and Bruno realizes I'm just ordinary Everly?

By five-thirty, the arena is packed beyond capacity. In the distance, thunder rumbles across the mountains, low and ominous. The oppressive heat presses down even harder and the crowd is restless as they wait.

“Never seen a turnout like it,” Mrs. Baptiste says as she fans herself. “That Bruno’s put the whole county on the map.”

“No pressure.”

Wilder, who's now eating an ice cream, nudges my shoulder. “Stop spiraling. He's going to be fine.”

“You don't know that.”

The announcement crackles over the loudspeakers: “Ladies and gentlemen, competitors to the gate! The flag race begins in fifteen minutes!”

My heart speeds up as I spot Bruno near the competitors' entrance, checking Ranger's tack one final time.

Elena appears at my side as if summoned by magic. “Time to take a break, dear. Everyone will be watching the race. I’ll cover for you.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know if I can watch…”

Elena's voice is gentle but firm. “Have a little faith. That man isn't just riding for you, Everly. He's riding for both of you. For the future you could build together.”

Wilder and I make our way to the arena.

“Three riders remain,” the announcer booms. “Magnus Huckle, Drake Morris, and Bruno Castelli… but as you all know, Mr. Castelli has raised the stakes considerably!”

Bruno’s changed into a black shirt that emphasizes his broad shoulders, his jaw set in determined lines. When he swings into the saddle, he sits like he was born there.

My phone buzzes again. I don't look at it.

“The rules are simple,” the announcer continues. “Riders race to collect seven flags placed at increasing distances, then return to the starting line. Fastest time wins. But Mr. Castelli will be attempting this course completely blindfolded!”

The crowd applauds. Beside me, Wilder squeezes my arm.

Drake goes first, his sorrel charging toward the flags with controlled aggression. He collects all of them cleanly, his time flashing on the board: thirty-one-point-four seconds. Magnus follows, his bay flowing through the course like liquid. Twenty-eight-point-two seconds.

Then it's Bruno's turn.

He appears at the gate leading Ranger, and the arena falls silent.

The judge approaches with a black blindfold, and my heart threatens to beat right out of my chest. Above us, the sky darkens ominously, thick clouds swallowing what's left of the evening light as if nature is holding its breath along with the rest of us.

“You sure about this, Bruno?” Drake calls out.

Bruno's response carries across the stillness: “Never been more sure of anything in my life.”

His eyes find mine across the crowd, and even from this distance, the focus of his stare makes my knees weak. He touches the brim of his hat and then accepts the blindfold. As he ties the black fabric around his eyes, I delete Trent's unread message without looking at it.