Page 3

The rest of our rodeo night blurs together into a whirlwind of adrenaline, loud music, and excitement.?

One minute, someone’s riding a horse, twirling a lasso in the air while the crowd screams like it’s the Fourth of July.

The next, they’re tearing through barrel racing.

It’s chaos, and I’m here for it. But when the lights dim, and a massive sign flashes across the big screen announcing that it’s officially Halftime , my heart kicks into overdrive.

I’m practically vibrating in my seat with excitement over getting to meet Hayes and trying to win this prize.

“Go get ’em, Regan,” Lydia says, giving me an encouraging nod and a shove toward the front of the stadium.

I shuffle toward the arena gate where the participants are being allowed onto the main floor as the last of the events clear out. Me and one of the other contestants gathers near the entrance, waiting until one of the employees waves us in.

“All right, head to the center of the stadium, and wait there for further instructions,” the guy says, gesturing us forward.

As we make our way across the dirt, the woman walking beside me introduces herself. “I’m Beth Ann. This is my fifth rodeo, but I’ve never been picked for halftime games before! I’m just tickled pink about meeting Hayes.”

She’s sweet, probably thirty years older than me, and wearing a cute pair of denim shorts and a green and white striped button up tied in the front. Hardly looks like real competition.

“It’s nice to meet you,” I respond with a smile. “I’m Regan Marshall.”

“Good luck.” She winks as we step onto the dirt and begin crossing the expansive space to the center where the MC is waiting for us.

Suddenly, I’m very aware of my outfit choice for the night: my favorite Levi’s denim dress—soft as butter from being worn to death—complete with a zipper all the way down the front and thin straps.

Cute? Sure. But practical for… whatever competition I’m about to compete in?

Not so much. Especially if it involves anything athletic or sitting on an animal.

The dress is short, falling right to the top of my thighs, and if I make any major shifts, the whole arena is going to get a show.

A spotlight snaps on, blinding me, and I instinctively shield my eyes as I stumble forward.

Great. Nothing like being thrust into the literal spotlight in front of thousands of people to watch you perform.

Growing up in a house full of loud brothers and a dad who could silence a room with a single look, I never had to be the center of attention, and right now, I’d rather crawl under a rock and hide, but I roll my shoulders back anyways and stick my chest out, walking with my chin up and determination in my steps.

When Beth Ann and I reach the center, the third contestant is already waiting for us.

“Jake,” he says, holding out a hand. I shake it confidently, then step aside as he greets Beth Ann.

Okay, I might’ve spoken too soon about having the upper hand. Jake looks like he came straight from working at a ranch. He’s probably been lassoing since he could walk and could wrangle a bull blindfolded. I might be in trouble.

The MC strides over to us, grinning wide enough to reveal a piece of tobacco lodged between his teeth.

“What’s your name and where’re you from, sweetheart?” he asks me, thrusting the mic in my direction first.

“Regan,” I manage, clearing my throat. “From the great state of North Carolina.”

The crowd erupts into cheers, stomping and clapping like I’ve already won. My eyes dart nervously around the arena, looking for something or someone until finally they land on him.

Hayes Walker.

He’s walking toward us, arms crossed over his massive chest, his grin sharp and knowing.

His gaze under the brim of his hat locks onto mine, and there’s no mistaking the look on his face.

He doesn’t think I have what it takes for whatever’s about to happen.

He doubts me. Well challenge accepted, cowboy.

The MC moves down the line, introducing Beth Ann and Jake to the same wild applause, but my attention doesn’t waver from the guy who just joined us. All I can see—all I can feel —is Hayes and his strong stare.

“Alright, folks!” the MC booms, his voice crackling through the speakers.

“Our three contestants tonight will compete in a rodeo classic: lassoing! We’ve got three stations set up with ropes and dummy calves ready to roll.

First one to successfully lasso and pull their calf across the line in the dirt wins the grand prize and a photo with our very own Hayes Walker! ”

The crowd goes wild again, but I barely hear it. Because I don’t give a damn about whatever the prize is. Beth Ann and Jake can have it.

I want Hayes .

We’re led toward the stations, the MC explaining the rules as Hayes trails behind.

I don’t look back, but I feel his eyes on me with every step I take.

Heavy, assessing, like he’s trying to figure me out.

I add a little extra sway into my hips with each drop of my boots against the dirt floor. Might as well give him a show.

“Alright, y’all,” the MC says, stopping us at the stations. “Do you want a demo first or just jump right in?”

Jake shrugs. “Let’s just jump in.”

I nod, refusing to let him outdo me, and Beth Ann, though visibly nervous, gives a little nod too.

“Alright!” The MC raises his hand. “On my whistle. One, two, th—”

The whistle slices through the air, and I’m already dropping to my knees, grabbing the heavy rope in my small hands.

Here’s the thing: We’ve established that I was raised on an egg farm.

But I’ve been around cattle farms, I’ve watched cowboys’ rope, I grew up riding horses, and I’ve thrown a lasso or two in my day.

Sure, it was mostly for fun and because my brother Troy was hell bent on teaching me, but it was enough to know what I’m doing and plus, I’ve seen movies.

No, I’ve never wrangled one of Cash’s chickens with a rope, that sounds cruel, but I’m strong.

I’ve spent my life hauling crates, feed and whiskey barrels.

Plus, I lift weights regularly, and I can hold my own.

And I have the upper hand because what I have that my competitors don’t is motivation.

I’m not just competing against Jake or Beth Ann.

I’m competing for Hayes.

The crowd’s cheers blend into the rush of adrenaline roaring in my ears.

My hands move on instinct, the rough texture of the rope familiar, almost comforting reminding me of the twine that’s wrapped around the bales of hay in the summertime.

I loop the lasso with practiced efficiency, my focus zeroed in on the dummy calf ahead of me.

Jake’s already ahead with his rope, and Beth Ann hesitates for just a second too long. Good. That’s my window.

I toss the lasso into the air, the loop perfectly rounded as it arcs toward the calf. Hayes is watching, I can feel his gaze like a heatwave, heavy and unrelenting, burning into my back. It makes me work faster, my hands steady even as my heart thunders in my chest.

I see the rope land where I need it to, the loop slipping over the calf’s neck clean and tight on my first try.

Hell yeah, cowgirl, I whisper to myself.

A grin stretches across my face, and with a strong yank, I dig the heel of my boots into the dirt and pull with everything I’ve got. The rope pulls taut, but the calf doesn’t budge.

What the hell?

I give another firm tug just as I notice Jake’s first lasso sails a few inches wide of the calf. Shit. I need to get this moving, now.

I dig my heels in, spin around until I’m facing Hayes and the MC behind us, hike the rope over my shoulder and pull with all my might.

My muscles are working in harmony with my determination, years of hauling heavy shit finally paying off as my arms scream in protest. I try to focus, not pay attention to what Beth Ann is fumbling next to me and Jake is doing as I hear him shout with victory, probably landing his second attempt. I just stay focused and keep pulling.

Finally, with one last hard tug, the dummy calf skids over the finish line at my feet. The MC’s voice booms through the arena and despite being completely out of breath, I stand tall and smile throwing my arms into the air in victory.

“And we’ve got ourselves a winner, folks! Regan from the state of North Carolina takes it all!”

The crowd explodes, but it’s all static in my ears.

My eyes lock on Hayes, and the rest of the world blurs.

He’s right there in front of me, smirking like he saw this coming all along.

His slow, deliberate claps cut through the noise, each one a tease, a challenge, meant just for me.

His gaze doesn’t waver, and suddenly my legs aren’t fully cooperating.

I’m glad the ground’s still under me because everything else feels like it’s spinning.

I probably shouldn’t have taken that shot of tequila before coming here tonight.

The MC gestures to the prize that he’s been hyping up, a garish, oversized trophy declaring me the lassoing champion of the rodeo.

For a second, I consider tossing it in the dirt and walking straight toward Hayes, climbing him like a tree and kissing that smirk off his face.

But instead, I play it cool, plastering on a polite smile.

“Thank you,” I say, taking the trophy as a camera flashes, capturing a photo of me and the grinning MC.

Hayes steps towards me next, close enough for his scent to wash over me—leather, whiskey, and fresh air.

It’s a scent I know well, one I’ve come to crave.

It smells like freedom, the countryside, and North Carolina.

It smells like a man. A real one. The kind who doesn’t mind getting dirty, is always a little sweaty and who lives life rough and honest.