Page 3 of Buck ’Em Cowgirl

Still, my mind refused to let it go until I saw it with my own eyes.

What if Mike turned it on to make his breakfast?

He hadn’t. I let out a deep sigh of relief and went back downstairs, where I saw Harleigh parked in her large red truck.

She waved and held up a coffee for me. I laughed and ran over toward her, making sure not to slip on any ice as I made my way to the curb.

“Hi, slut,” she said and handed me my iced coffee.

Yes, it was winter. Yes, I was drinking an iced coffee. So what?

“Hi, ho,” I responded and buckled into the truck as she pulled out. “When are you going to get a normal car?”

“Can take the girl out of the country, but can’t take the country out of the girl. I will go to my grave driving this.”

I laughed. Technically, Harleigh worked for me as my assistant, handling the managerial tasks that kept me extra organized. Over the last year, our working relationship had grown into a close friendship. She wasn’t only my right hand; she was also the reason I was leading this new project for our company.

Her connection to the rodeo world ran deep. Her dad used to be a stock contractor, providing bucking bulls for the tour, though he’d since retired. When Bucking Energy got the opportunity to sponsor the tour last year, I pitched the idea of managing their marketing efforts—from social media to advertisements at the event. Harleigh helped me put together a killer proposal, and all those late nights working on it only brought us closer.

Physically, though, we couldn’t be more different. Her hair was jet black, always styled into some intricate updo that looked straight out of a tutorial I’d never have the patience to try. Her eyes were an electric blue, so vivid against her dark hair that she looked like she’d stepped out of a fairy tale. A real-life storybook character.

“What did Mike do this morning?” Harleigh asked as she turned down the road toward our offices in the Loop.

“Nothing. He was frustrated with . . .” I looked down at my hands before holding them up as if they could explain everything.

She sighed softly, gaze locked on the road ahead. Her knuckles tightened around the steering wheel, whitening as she gripped it harder. She didn’t need to say anything. She already knew about my health anxiety, about the accident, and the way everything had spiraled afterward. The anxiety had sunk its teeth into me long before she ever brought up this project, but it didn’t take much for it to flare again.

Sometimes I wondered if she’d offered me the opportunity because she saw it happening in real time—like she was trying to give my brain something else to chew on. Something solid. A distraction from the mess I’d become, both physically and mentally.

Over time, we began to notice the patterns I’d developed—the little rituals, the compulsion to stay clean. She picked up on my quirks, like how I insisted she wash her hands thoroughly with antibacterial soap before touching anything whenever we spent time together. She never complained or pushed back, just quietly adjusted to the person I had become.

“It’s fine. It’s my fault. I need to⁠—”

“I’m proud of you for coming tomorrow.” She interrupted whatever I was about to launch into. “I know you could easily call in sick.”

I scoffed, the idea almost laughable. “Yeah, right. You think Mike would be okay with that?”

“Ew. We’re not going for him. He sounds like such a try-hard when he plays.”

“Harls.” I scolded her, but she shrugged, completely unbothered.

“He does,” she said, unapologetic. “Honestly, I’m more excited for you to see some of the bull riders.”

I sank into my seat, watching the steady stream of morning commuters heading toward the Loop. Bull riders? Why would I care about them? The footage I’d seen while working on the project was enough to terrify me. The bulls looked filthy, the riders reckless and idiotic. Who in their right mind would willingly climb onto the back of a bucking bull and call it a career?

“We’re going to find you someone new.”

I burst out laughing, the sound echoing in the car. She turned and shot me a quick side-eye before focusing back on the road.

“I’m being deadass, Fable. When’s the last time you even had sex?”

A long-ass time.

“Exactly,” she said.

I held up my ring finger. “Harleigh. I am getting married next year.”

She shook her head. “Have the rumors stopped?”