Page 18 of Ride Me Reckless

I didn't bother turning on the lights.

Callie stood at the kitchen counter, digging through her purse with one hand and twisting her damp braid over her shoulder with the other. She wore tight jeans, boots, and a fitted tank under an oversized flannel—casual, but definitely not staying in. A hint of perfume floated in the air, floral with something sharper underneath.

"Keys, wallet, phone… where the hell—ah," she muttered, fishing out a tube of lip gloss and swiping it on in the reflection of the microwave door.

She looked over her shoulder as I stepped through the kitchen door, soaked, blushing, trying not to look like I’d just fallen off the edge of something I swore I wouldn’t climb again.

One glance. That was all it took.

Her eyes dragged over me—windblown hair, shirt clinging in all the wrong places, jeans still wet and flecked with hay. She arched a brow, then smirked like she’d seen it all coming.

“Well, well,” she said, slipping her gloss back into her bag. “Bathroom’s open. You look like you got caught in a storm and liked it.”

I shot her a glare as I passed. “Shut up.”

She just laughed, pulling on a denim jacket and heading for the door. “I’m meeting the girls at Ropers. Don’t wait up.”

The screen door creaked and slammed behind her, leaving only the faint scent of her perfume and the flickering candle still burning on the kitchen table.

In the bathroom, I locked the door and leaned on the sink.

There I was.

Rain-drenched. Skin flushed. Mouth still tingling from Colt’s kiss. His scent clung to me—warm leather, woodsmoke, the kind of heat that didn’t wash off easy.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

It was supposed to be a detour. A goodbye, not a return.

But my reflection didn’t look like someone ready to leave. It looked like a woman holding a thousand what-ifs in her chest and not nearly enough breath to carry them.

I pressed a washcloth to my face.

Breathe.

Don’t cry. Don’t smile.

Just breathe.

Tomorrow, I’d leave again.

At least, that’s what I kept telling myself.

Chapter Five

Whiplash

Three Weeks Later

Colt

Windstorm was antsy tonight with the rodeo jitters.

He danced in place while I adjusted his bridle, ears twitching, hooves dancing softly on the packed dirt. The big paint gelding always got a little wired before a run, but tonight, he felt extra wired—like he knew someone was watching.

Or maybe that was just me.

Kenzie stood off to the side, twisting something between her fingers, all dimples and lip gloss under her hat. Her boots tapped out a rhythm against the stable floor—impatient but not nervous. That girl had nerves like braided steel and a way of carrying herself like she was already wearing a winner's sash.