Page 2 of Ride Me Reckless (Millionaire Cowboys of Lucky Ranch #1)

Chapter Two

Hard to Handle

Tessa

T he crowd was still roaring when I killed the engine and climbed out of Reckless .

My boots hit the pavement, and the air hit me like a wall—exhaust, rubber, dust, and the sweet, sharp tang of adrenaline still buzzed through my veins.

My fire suit clung to my skin, hot and damp, but I couldn't pull it off yet—not with the way they were looking at me, so I unzipped it down to my waist to get some fresh air.

The fans were pressed up against the barricades, waving ball caps, phones, and programs. Someone yelled my name, then another.

"Tessa Walker!"

" Reckless rules!"

"Queen of the damn track!"

I smiled on cue—gritty, crooked, the kind of grin that said I'd do it all over again without blinking. That's what they came for. The attitude. The edge. Tessa "Reckless" Walker didn't blink, break, or flinch just because a few men with souped-up dragsters thought they had something to prove.

I signed a few ballcaps, posed for selfies I knew would be on Instagram before sundown, and gave a solid quote to a kid with a notepad and braces.

"No such thing as luck," I told him, voice steady. "Just grip, guts, and knowing when to hit the gas." He looked like I'd handed him the keys to a rocket ship.

The second wave came harder—an older guy wanted a picture with me "for his daughter," two teen girls wanted a video shoutout, and some big-time car blogger I vaguely recognized asked for a quick interview. I gave them all just enough. Just like always.

But as I moved through the crowd, that buzzing, hyped-up energy I usually brushed off? It started to twist inside me. A slow churn at the pit of my stomach that had nothing to do with racing.

Because I’d seen him somewhere out there—behind the stands or just past the bleachers.

Colt.

I didn't expect him to come. Thought maybe he'd moved on, married some small-town sweetheart, or buried himself so deep in ranch life that the world couldn't reach him anymore. But the second I saw that silhouette—hat low, boots planted wide, arms crossed over that infuriatingly broad chest—I knew.

It was him.

And worse—I'd looked straight at Colt. Or maybe I hadn't. Maybe it just felt that way. The moment passed too fast to be sure, but something in my gut had turned to liquid.

That man had no business looking at me like he still remembered what I tasted like at two in the morning. No business showing up at my track, breathing my air, stirring up pieces of me I'd buried in five states and four sponsorship contracts ago.

Or like he still wondered what else I might’ve taken with me when I left. I used to lie awake wondering the same thing—what if I’d stayed? What if I’d told him?

But the truth?

I’d been relieved when it ended early.

Relieved... and ashamed I felt that way.

I cut through the last stretch of spectators with a nod and a quick wave, then made a beeline for the trailer. My fire suit felt like it was shrink-wrapped to my body. I didn’t dare stop to fully unzip it—not until I could shut the world out.

And Colt with it.

The second the trailer door closed behind me, I exhaled for the first time since the finish line.

Silence.

Then, the dull creak of metal as I leaned back against the door and let my head thump softly against it.

Dammit.

I peeled the zipper down to my hips with shaking fingers. Not from nerves—at least, that's what I told myself. It was just the come-down. The post-race adrenaline crash. Normal stuff.

Only, it didn't feel normal.

My skin burned. My chest felt tight. And my mind was stuck—looping on a man I hadn't spoken to in five years and a look that felt like a match dropped on gasoline.

I should've been over it by now.

Over Colt.

Yet, apparently, some ghosts don't stay buried.

The sound of boots outside the trailer was my only warning before the door creaked open, and Callie Hart stepped inside like she owned the place. Which, if I were being totally honest, she kinda did. Half of it, at least.

"Well," she said, kicking it shut behind her with the heel of her boot, "if that run didn't make someone's highlight reel, I'll eat my damn hat."

She dropped her tablet, notebook, and a half-empty iced coffee onto the kitchenette counter in a perfectly organized mess, then looked up at me and squinted. One hand went to her hip.

"Uh-oh."

Callie tilted her head. "What happened?"

"Nothing," I said too fast.

Her brows lifted. "Let me guess. Tall. Wears a hat like it's part of his DNA. Makes your knees weak and your attitude worse?"

I shot her a look.

"Yep," she said, peeling off her leather jacket. "That's a Colt Bennett sighting, alright. The same guy who had you crying into a bottle of ginger ale and watching baby furniture commercials at 2 AM that one night in Denver back in your heyday.”

I let out a sharp breath and rolled my eyes. “He was just standing there," I muttered, washing my face in the tiny bathroom sink. "Like no time had passed. Like he had every right to show up and look at me like…"

"Like you were still his?"

I didn't answer. I didn't have to.

Callie crossed the trailer and handed me a bottle of water from the fridge. "You knew this might happen."

"I knew it was possible ," I said. "Doesn't mean I was ready for it."

She flopped onto the bench seat with a groan and kicked her feet up. "Look, I love you—but you need to decide if he's just a ghost or still got flesh and blood in your head. Because the last thing you need right now is a distraction."

"I'm not distracted."

She gave me a look.

"Fine. I'm rattled. For a minute. But I've got it handled."

"Mmhmm. Like the time you 'had it handled' in Phoenix and ran your mouth in front of that VP from Delta Edge Racing, which ended in you being disqualified?”

I rolled my eyes. "That was one time."

Callie grinned. "And this is your one ex you never really got over. Don't pretend this isn't sitting in your chest like a hot coal."

I took a long drink of water and leaned against the counter, trying to settle the tremble in my spine. She wasn't wrong. She usually wasn't.

"I didn't come back just for the race, you know."

Callie's grin softened. "Yeah," she said, voice quieter now. “Your Mom.”

“Yep,” I said, and the words felt thick coming out. "She's been… slipping a little more.”

Callie sat up a little straighter.

"I've been getting calls from the neighbors," I said. "She’s forgetting things. Leaving lights on. Last week, she lost her keys and swore someone broke in. And yesterday..." I hesitated. "She asked me how Dad was doing."

Callie blinked. “Tessa…”

"He’s been gone eight years." My voice cracked—just a little. I didn’t let it go any further. “You know how she always ran a tight house,” I added quickly, filling the silence. “Never let a damn thing slide. But now? She just seems... Fuzzier than ever. Tired.”

Maybe that’s why I hadn’t told Mom back then—when it all happened. She didn’t seem strong enough to hold something like that. And I hadn’t felt strong enough to say it out loud. Not even to Callie.

Not even when I found myself alone in that hotel bathroom a few weeks after I left Colt, staring down at two pink lines like they couldn’t possibly be mine.

The silence of that room was the loudest thing I’d ever heard.

A flutter of something inside me—hope? dread?—rose before I even knew what to call it.

And then I’d buried it.

“You didn’t tell me it was this bad,” Callie said, her voice quiet now.

“I didn’t want to say it out loud.” I stared at my hands. “But I couldn’t stay away anymore.”

Callie nodded. No questions. No raised eyebrows. Just quiet loyalty.

“You did the right thing,” she said.

But as she leaned back in her chair, her eyes lingered on me—longer than they needed to. Not accusing. Just… knowing.

Like maybe she’d always suspected there was more to the story.

“Is there something else?” she asked gently.

I didn’t answer. Just picked at the hem of my sleeve and kept my eyes on the floor.

We sat in that stillness a little longer.

Then she cleared her throat and tapped her tablet, shifting gears like she always did—businesslike, no pressure. But the space between us held something new now. Something we weren’t saying.

"Okay, well. While we're fixing lives and cracking hearts, let's talk about sponsors.

Because this little town's suddenly full of men with six-figure bank accounts and not enough hobbies.

I spotted three in the VIP tent tonight, and one of them asked if you were available, which, frankly, I think was about the car, not your relationship status, but either way, I'm calling him. "

I let out a small laugh. "Please tell me you didn't give him my number."

"Not yet."

She gave me a wink. "Let me work my magic first."

I smiled, grateful in a way I wouldn't dare admit out loud.

"I need this next deal," I said. "Bad."

"What you need," she said, "is to remember who the hell you are. You're Tessa freaking Walker. Reckless on the strip, cool under pressure, and sharp enough to know when a man's a distraction—not a destination."

I let her words hang in the air as I crossed to the window. The edge of the racetrack glowed under the floodlights.

"I've been thinking about Biscuit," I said.

Callie glanced up. "The horse?"

I nodded. "He still has her. I know he does. I told myself I'd figure out a way to see her while I'm back, but I don't know how to do that without…" I trailed off.

Callie filled it in for me. "Without Colt."

I didn't answer. Didn't have to.

"You want to see her?"

"More than I want to breathe."

Before Callie could say another word, there was a knock on the trailer door.

Not a tap. Not a pound. Just two raps—steady, sure. It seemed as though the person on the other side belonged there.

Callie froze mid-step.

My pulse kicked. "You expecting someone?" she asked.

I didn't answer.

She peeked through the curtain, then gave me a look that made my stomach clench. "Oh yeah. It's him."

Colt.

My breath caught. My body tensed. Like it knew trouble was standing on the other side of the door.

Callie lowered her voice. "Want me to say you're not here?"

I shook my head. "No. I've got it."

She slipped into the tiny bathroom without another word.

I opened the door, and there he was.

New Stetson, clean like it hadn't seen a full day's work yet.

The boots were still cowboy but polished—too new, like they'd been ordered from some high-end Western outfitter and hadn't yet tasted real dirt.

His shirt was crisp, pearl-snap denim rolled to the elbows, and that old belt buckle?

Still there—familiar and worn, like maybe not everything had changed.

The man wearing it? He looked like someone who owned the damn sunrise. He smelled like sun and saddle leather.

Like yesterday.

He held my gaze. "Hey."

I swallowed. "Hey."

"Didn't mean to interrupt."

"You didn't."

"You ran a hell of a race."

"Thanks." My arms crossed without thinking.

The silence crackled. He glanced past me into the trailer. "Your manager still with you?"

"She's not going anywhere."

He nodded. "Good. You always needed someone on your side."

"I've always had myself."

"Didn't say you didn't." He looked down, then back up. "Just figured backup didn't hurt."

I didn't reply. My throat was tight.

"You didn't have to come," I said.

"I know."

"But you did."

He gave a short nod. "Wanted to see you win again like you did when you were still rodeoing.”

That landed harder than it should've. Quiet. Sincere.

"Dangerous," I murmured.

"What is?"

"Letting yourself want things you can't have."

His eyes sharpened. "Who says I can't?"

The air between us flared. I stepped back. "This isn't a good time."

"Figured. Just wanted to say you looked good out there."

"Thanks."

"And I'm still taking care of her."

My heart stuttered. "Biscuit?"

"Every morning. Every night."

I gripped the doorframe.

"I've been meaning to come see her," I said. "Just didn't know if it'd be… complicated."

"It doesn't have to be."

I swallowed hard. "I'll let you know."

He nodded. "She'll be waiting."

Colt stepped back, then paused. "Tessa?"

"Yeah?"

He looked at me like he still knew the parts of me I tried to forget. "You still got fire in your eyes. Don't let anyone put it out."

Then he turned and walked into the night.

I shut the door slowly.

Callie emerged with a shot glass in her hand.

I didn't ask. I just knocked back the whiskey.

The shot burned going down. Outside, thunder rumbled in the distance, low and rolling like something old had just stirred.

I didn’t really believe in signs, but tonight Lady Luck had a cruel sense of humor.