Page 43

"You good?" he asks.

"Fine," I say, and my voice comes out flat. "Why wouldn't I be?"

He frowns, but Crystal pulls at his arm and his attention fractures.

"Come on," she purrs. "Everyone's at Dusty's. You can't just disappear after a ride like that."

"I've got stuff to do," he tells her, but he's still looking at me, something questioning in his eyes.

"Later then," Crystal counters, not accepting no. She rises on her toes, her lips brushing his cheek, and my stomach turns over hard enough that I have to swallow against it. "Don't forget."

She walks away with a sway in her step that feels calculated down to the millimeter. The brunette—Marissa—follows after a moment, pressing a piece of paper into Clint's hand that he takes automatically, tucking it into his pocket without looking at it.

The noise of the rodeo crashes back in, suddenly too loud, too much. My skin feels too tight, my flannel too warm, everything pressing in at the edges.

I hand Captain's reins to Clint without a word and turn away.

"Autumn—"

"I need to find a bathroom," I say, not looking back. "I'll be back."

I don't wait for a response. My boots hit the dirt harder than necessary, carrying me away from them, from the trailers and the horses and the women who know exactly how to touch them. My eyes burn, and I blink hard, refusing to let whatever this is surface.

Stupid. I'm being stupid. They're not mine. They'll never be mine.

I'm a temporary problem, a favor for an old friend, and in a few weeks, I'll be back in Virginia pretending none of this happened.

My hands shake as I round the corner of a trailer, finding a narrow space between it and a stack of equipment cases. I press my back against the metal, the sun-warmed surface heating through my shirt, and drag both hands through my hair, pulling it loose from the messy bun. It falls around my shoulders, tangled and sweaty, and I don't bother fixing it.

The air smells like diesel and dust out here, away from the main crowd. I breathe it in, letting it settle in my lungs, trying to quiet the buzzing in my head. Footsteps crunch on gravel, approaching, and I straighten, shoving my hands into my jean pockets, arranging my face into something blank and uninterested.

Briggs rounds the corner, stopping when he sees me. His eyes move over me once, quick and assessing. Taking in my posture, my expression, whatever he's looking for.

"You disappeared," he states.

"Bathroom," I repeat.

"There's one by the concession stand. Other direction."

I press my lips together, saying nothing.

He steps closer, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to keep his gaze. His shadow falls across me, blocking the sun, and I shiver despite the warmth still clinging to the afternoon.

"You okay?" he asks, and his voice is lower than before.

"Fine."

"You keep saying that."

"Because it's true."

He studies me for a long moment, his jaw working like he's deciding whether to push. His hand rises, slow enough that I could move away, and his thumb brushes my cheekbone, the same spot where he'd wiped the dirt earlier. This time there's no dirt, just his skin against mine, rough and warm.

"Your face does this thing," he says quietly. "When you're not fine. Right here." His thumb presses down slightly, just below my eye. "It tightens. Gives you away."

I swallow, my throat dry. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Yeah," he rumbles, not quite a question. "You do."