Page 1

“Hurry up, Lydia!” I shout over my shoulder, a laugh bubbling out as I spin around in place. My short denim dress flutters at the edges, and my dark auburn hair whips out in all directions, catching the summer sunlight like a kaleidoscope.

Behind me, my new friend Lydia hurries to catch up, a wide grin stretched across her pretty face.

She’s the reverend’s daughter and has been my partner in crime ever since I moved back to North Carolina after college.

Her blonde hair is pulled into a tight ponytail, and she’s wearing a short red-and-white checkered skirt with a white tank top tucked in.

“I know you’re itching to see these cowboys,” she says, slightly breathless, “but I had to grab a photo of that monument out front. You know my dad eats this kind of stuff up.”

I laugh again, tilting my head back to let the sun kiss my face.

It’s one of those sticky summer days in Charlotte, North Carolina where everything feels alive and almost too golden to see.

But today isn’t just any summer day. It’s my twenty-third birthday.

One full year since I packed up my business degree from Arkansas State University and returned to my home state to help grow the family businesses.

And what a year it’s been.

The Marshall family ventures are no joke.

We recently expanded our distillery, producing our own whiskey and beer, with plans to branch into other spirits soon.

My twin brother Colt is even working on opening a storefront that’ll be part restaurant, part brewery and feature our family’s products.

And all of that is on top of running the egg farm that’s been our family’s bread and butter for generations.

Growing up on that farm, nestled in the shadow of the Blue Ridge Mountains, shaped who I am today.

It’s why being here at a rodeo feels like slipping into a pair of well-worn boots.

Sure, we aren’t cattle farmers, but we’ve had horses now and then, wide-open pastures with plenty of space to run, and the kind of small-town charm that makes you feel at ease around a cowboy.

Our egg farm isn’t just any farm, either, it’s no-kill.

From hatchlings to old hens, our chickens live peaceful lives, and we all take pride in that mission.

Once they stop laying, we allow the hens to live out the rest of their lives in bliss on the farm.

Bulls? I’ve been around a few. But riding one?

That’s next-level insanity I have no plans to try, though I’m more than happy to watch someone else risk life and limb tonight.

As we approach the stadium, I pull out my phone and fire off a quick text to Colt who’s back home in Whitewood Creek celebrating.

Regan : Happy birthday, womb-mate. I love you.

Out of everyone in the family, Colt knows me best. We’ve always been the steady pair, quieter than our older brothers, who tend to suck up all the oxygen in a room with their loud, charismatic personalities or grumpy brooding, but I’ve come into my own since moving back to town.

I think I always needed the time away to discover who I was without my older brother’s protection.

Earlier this afternoon, I’d dragged Lydia into my birthday plans.

“Let’s go to the rodeo in Charlotte!” I’d said, bouncing with excitement. “Cowboys, country music, beer, dancing. It’s the perfect way to celebrate!”

“And clowns, ” she’d joked, but I’d just rolled my eyes and kept on pitching my case.

Now, standing outside Queen City Stadium, I can tell she’s just as excited as I am for our first rodeo experience and a night away from our small-town.

The stadium looms large, a massive structure that’s usually home to the city’s professional football team, but tonight it’s hosting its’ first college rodeo night. The facility is crawling with college kids everywhere, the hum of energy palpable.

The smell hits me first: that familiar mix of animals, dust, and fair food frying somewhere close by.

It’s nostalgia wrapped in the sounds of boots crunching gravel and country music playing faintly over speakers.

It takes me back to autumns spent working at the North Carolina State Fair that’s hosted in my hometown, to the rhythm of life on our farm.

But tonight? Tonight isn’t for introspections. Tonight is for snagging myself a celebration cowboy . Because that’s how I intend on spending my twenty-third birthday.

We dodge a handler leading a sleek gray mare and head toward the ticket counters. Everywhere I look, there’s something to see. Boots are kicking up dust, cowboy hats perched just right, the faint smell of leather and hay. And the men.

God , the cowboys.

It’s like someone rounded up the most handsome men from every state and dropped them here. I haven’t dated since college ended, haven’t had the time or energy for anything romantic, but even I can appreciate the view. There’s something about a man in boots and a Stetson that just does it for me.

“Damn, look at that one,” I whisper to Lydia, elbowing her gently as we linger near the edge of the stadium.

My gaze locks on a cowboy who’s probably in his late thirties.

He’s all brass buckles, faded Wranglers, and deliberate, easy steps and his legs look like they were carved just to fit in a saddle.

Lydia groans and adjusts the hem of her skirt, her wild blonde hair sticking to the light sheen of sweat on her neck. “You’re going to ditch me for one of them tonight, aren’t you?”

I laugh, tossing her a look. “I won’t until I know that you’re safely back at your aunt’s house.”

Lydia and I are crashing at her aunt’s place here in Charlotte for the weekend, but let’s be real—I have zero intention of calling it an early night like she wants to.

I want to go out, let loose, soak up the freedom of being somewhere that isn’t Whitewood Creek, where my brothers know everyone and have their hands in just about everything.

And this is why I went to college in Arkansas.

Being away gave me room to breathe, to figure out who I was without the constant, watchful eyes of my family carefully curating every move I made.

And even though I always knew I’d come back to North Carolina eventually to work in the family businesses and settle back into that world that’s always felt like home, it doesn’t mean I don’t miss the independence that Arkansas provided.

Nights like this are my rebellion. My little slice of wild.

Lydia rolls her eyes, clearly unimpressed by my need to go cowboy hunting, but she’s laughing too. Even though we’re around the same age, she’s way more interested in being sensible these days. I’m not there yet. And definitely not tonight when I’m trying to forget .

We weave through the bustling crowd, making our way toward where our seats are in the stadium. At the top entrance to our row, Lydia flashes the tickets we bought earlier, and the check-in attendant hands us a card in return.

“Don’t lose that,” he warns, his tone flat with boredom. “During the halftime events tonight, they’ll be picking a few people from the crowd to come down to center stage for some rodeo activities.”

“Rodeo activities?” I ask, raising a brow.

He nods. “Yeah. Winner gets a special prize and a photo with Hayes Walker.”

Hayes Walker.

The name alone sends a little jolt of excitement rushing through me.

Hayes is the number one bull rider in North America.

I know that because I spent the entire ride here scrolling through his stats and looking at photos of him.

If I’m going to watch men ride 2,000 pounds of pure muscle tonight and attempt not to be thrown down to the dirt, I at least want to know who the big shots are.

And Hayes? He’s not just good, he’s incredible. The best .

Ten plus years on the circuit. Rides all over the world. He’s practically untouchable in the rankings and at the top of his game. But that’s not what stuck with me. Oh no. What I was caught up in were the photos that were was attached with my research.

Light brown hair, warm hazel eyes, tanned skin that screams spends all his time outdoors.

And then there’s the jawline. Sharp enough to cut glass, and shoulders so broad you could park a tractor on them.

The man’s built like he was made to be printed on posters and the star of every woman’s fantasies.

He spends his off-season, which is only two months out of the year, surfing in tropical countries, volunteering at an animal rescue, and riding horses on his family’s ranch in South Carolina, which is somehow both adorable and painfully attractive.

Small-town boy finds success on the circuit riding bulls and spends his downtime saving animals. Swoon.

If I were to ride a cowboy tonight, he’d be the one.

No question. Not that I’m greedy. I’m not trying to have my whole world flipped upside down.

A birthday, one-night stand is all I’m after.

I’d happily settle for someone ranked fifth on the circuit since reaching for Hayes might be a little too ambitious.

Lydia glances at her phone, distracted, then nudges me as the lights in the arena dim. “Showtime,” she whispers, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Strobe lights slice through the darkness, and the crowd roars to life.

The sound is deafening full of boots stomping, people yelling, music thumping, and I feel it all vibrating in my chest reminding me I’m alive.

It’s overwhelming in the best way, like a tidal wave of pure adrenaline crashing over me.

For someone who usually prefers quiet nights in, this is a whole different world. And I’m here for it.