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That’s hers.

It shouldn’t be…not like this.

She’s supposed to be on blockers. Not only should it block her heat, but it shouldn’t be letting her perfume be noticeable.

This is wrong.

It’s not a full perfume. It’s too soft, too inconsistent. It flickers in and out instead of filling the air in thick waves.

I glance at her again, slower this time. Taking in the way she stands, the tension in her shoulders she’s trying to hide, the way her breathing still isn’t fully even.

Her hands ball into fists. “What?” she asks.

I shake my head once, looking back out at the arena. “Nothing.”

Lie.

She doesn’t push, just watches me for a second longer before turning back to the arena.

Smart.

The announcer’s voice cuts back in, pulling the focus away, but it doesn’t land the same way now. Because now I know it’s there.

That scent.

And now that I’ve caught it once, I can’t not notice it. I don’t like that either.

When the noise rises again, when the next rider takes off and the crowd follows, my attention doesn’t fully go with it.

Not when she’s standing right here, close enough that I can catch it again when the air shifts.

Black cherry. Almond.

Faint, but there.

My jaw tightens again.

Yeah, that’s a problem.

Chapter

Fourteen

Autumn

The noise doesn't fade so much as recede; the announcer's voice still sounds somewhere around me, calling out scores or building up the next rider. I don't pay attention to the words. My hands stay wrapped around the metal rail, fingers stiff from gripping too hard and I force them loose one at a time. The blood rushes back with a dull ache.

My pulse is still hammering harder than it should be. I can feel it in my throat, in my wrists, everywhere. Not from the rodeo itself anymore. From them. From watching them move like that, like the danger was nothing, like their bodies knew exactly what to do before their brains caught up.

I turn away from the arena and almost collide with Tripp's chest.

"Shit," I breathe, my palms flattening against him without thinking, the fabric of his shirt damp under my fingers, his heartbeat thumping fast against my hand. "Sorry. I didn't⁠—"

"You're good," he says, but his voice comes out rough, breaths coming a little too quick. He doesn't step back. His hand comes up, catching my elbow like he's steadying me, or himself, and his thumb presses into the bone there for half a second before he lets go. "Didn't mean to crowd you."

"You didn't," I say, with my hands still on him. I pull them back, curling my fingers into my palms, but the heat of him lingers.

He grins, full and unguarded in a way I haven't seen from him before, and something in my chest tightens without permission. I drop my gaze to his shoulder, to the dust coating his shirt, and brush at it without thinking. My knuckles graze his collarbone through the fabric and he goes still.