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"That's your cowboy, huh?" A woman beside me laughs, and heat rushes straight to my cheeks.

Before I can answer, Clint looks toward me and the smile that spreads across his face gets wider when he sees me practically hanging over the rail.

I blow a kiss at him and he tips his hat.

“Yeah,” I tell the woman. “He’s mine.”

Briggs is up next, and while I should just say I’m tired and go back to the motel, I don’t. Apparently, I enjoy making myself suffer. He’s been quieter than usual all morning, giving me space or taking it, I don’t know anymore. Every time I catch him looking at me, he looks away first. Every time I decide I’m done caring, he does something stupid like hand me water without being asked, or make sure I’m standing in the shade.

Infuriating man.

When his turn comes, I move closer to the rail without thinking.

Tripp ends up on one side of me, Clint on the other, both dusty and pleased with themselves, but their attention shifts to the arena, too. Briggs is already mounted, Bruce beneath him, that buckskin looking calm enough to make me angry on principle. I’m not calm. I’m not even close.

“He’s gonna be fine,” Tripp murmurs.

“I know.” My voice sounds tight.

Clint glances down at me but doesn’t say anything.

The gate snaps open, and everything in me narrows down to Briggs.

Bruce surges forward alongside the steer, and Briggs leans low, focused in a way that makes him look untouchable. Then he’s moving, sliding off the horse, boots hitting dirt as his hands find the steer. For one terrifying second, the whole thing looks wrong. Too fast and too dangerous, too much body hitting body, but then the steer goes down.

I don’t realize I’ve grabbed Tripp’s arm until he laughs softly beside me.

“Easy, Sweetheart.”

I let go immediately. “Shut up.”

He keeps laughing.

Briggs stands, dust on his jeans, hat still on by some miracle. He looks toward the rail, and this time he doesn’t look away when his eyes find me.

My heart stutters stupidly.

Then, he nods once.

I hate him a little. Maybe. Not really.

By the time they call them for awards, I’m already vibrating out of my skin.

I hang back at first because I don’t know where I’m supposed to be. There are people everywhere, contestants moving around, cameras out, families pressing closer to the arena side. I tell myself to stay put, not because I don’t want to go, but because I still have this stupid little part of me waiting for someone to say I don’t belong there.

The announcer's voice crackles through the speakers.

"Let's hear it for your tie-down roping champion..."

My pulse jumps.

"...Clint Beasley!"

The crowd applauds as Clint steps forward. His hat is pushed back slightly, dust still clinging to his jeans and boots. He looks exactly like he did this morning, and completely different. The same man who steals fries off my plate and drinks my Dr. Pepper when he thinks I'm not looking, is standing in the middle of an arena while people cheer for him. The realization makes my chest feel funny.

The announcer moves on to bronc riding next. Tripp's name booms through the speakers, and the crowd gets even louder. He tips his hat toward the stands like he's accepting an award at the Oscars instead of a rodeo buckle.

Show-off.