Page 25 of Sexting the Cowboy

By midday, the heat turns thick and unkind. The crowd swells, the music blares, and the smell of horses and sunscreen burns into my brain. My phone buzzes in my pocket just as I’m stepping out of the tent for some fresh air.

You look like you could use some sunshine.

I glance toward the pens, and there he is. Brick Wyatt, hat tilted back, shirt clinging to his shoulders, phone in hand, smirking like he invented it. He really is as handsome as the announcer makes him sound, there’s no denying that. The bastard knows what he’s doing.

I type back,It’s already ninety degrees. I’ve had plenty of sunshine.

Some moonshine, then? Got a bottle in my trailer,he replies.

My stomach flips. I can practically hear his voice—lazy, teasing, low enough to make every nerve sit up and listen.

I send,You should be working.

I am. Multitasking.

You’re impossible.

And yet, here you are texting me.

He’s infuriating. He’s also right. I glance toward the bulls, but he’s still looking my way. The grin’s gone sly, like he’s already winning.

Distracting the medic seems risky,I write.

Distracting’s what I do best.

I shouldn’t smile. I do anyway. I drop the phone into my pocket and try to focus on charting, but it buzzes again within seconds.

Smile more, Doc. It looks good on you.

I roll my eyes so hard they almost stick.You need better hobbies.

You could be one,he writes back.

I press my lips together, fighting a laugh.You flirt like it’s your job.

Technically, it’s my side gig.

And what’s your main one?

Trying not to fall off large animals.

Sounds thrilling.

Pays the bills.

You’re ridiculous.

And you’re still smiling, so I win again.

I shove the phone away, but the grin won’t die. The next hour passes in a haze of mild injuries—an older cowboy with a sprained wrist, a kid with heat exhaustion—but my head’s somewhere else entirely. Every time my phone buzzes, my pulse spikes like it’s been waiting for an excuse.

The Silver Fox has a dirty mind.

By the time lunch rolls around, I’m outside the tent at the picnic table, nursing a bottle of water and pretending my turkeysandwich isn’t made of cardboard. The fairground hums all around me, bright and loud and alive. I can feel him somewhere out there without even looking.

The text hits right on cue.You eat yet?

Trying,I type back.