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“Why not?”

“Aside from the fact that I don’t want to sit next to you for the next two and a half hours?”

When he steps closer, his spiced woodsy scent dangles in the breeze. “Aww, c’mon. I’ll drive. You can be my passenger princess. It’ll be just like old times.”

“I’m not your anything.” But the fiery ball of emotion in my throat calls me a liar. I need him gone like seventeen minutes ago. “What’s it going to take for you to leave me alone?”

“I’d rather it not come to that.”

My exhale is heavy, weighed down by resignation. “How about a truce? I’ll try to stop hating you if you quit hounding me.”

“A truce? Really?”

“If it means you put an end to stalking me.”

Chance’s pause is thicker than the scruff coating his jaw. It’s annoying that I notice the stubble is longer today. What’s even more disturbing is that I want to test the texture against my cheek. I’ve officially spent too much time close to him.

Is this what happens to the other girls? He’s casting a similar seduction spell on me.

“Will this truce put me in the driver’s seat?”

I wrench my head out of the clouds with a firm shake. “Only if you’re referring to your own truck. You should probably check on your endless supply of girlfriends. They’ve gotta be missing you somethin’ fierce right about now.”

His frown doesn’t appear impressed with my evasive maneuvers. “I’ll follow you.”

“That would be considered stalking. Already breaking the terms of our truce?” I tap a nail to my bottom lip.

“It’s just two people headed to the same location.”

“We both know that’s a bunch of bull.”

His cocky smirk confirms it, putting that irresistible dimple on display. “I’m afraid you can’t stop me from going to the rodeo, Wildflower.”

“Fine. Whatever. You and your relentless whims win. Guess I’ll see you there.” And then I’m sliding behind the wheel of Big Red without a backward glance.

While Chance hauls ass to his Ford pickup in the driveway, I’m searching for an event in the opposite direction of the one I originally chose. Victory splits my lips in a broad grin.

“Let’s see if you can keep up, Bronc.”

The temperature of my frustration is rising to a boil by the time I pull into Crook Carver Fairgrounds. This is the third barrel race I’ve tracked down after realizing Gemma ditched her initial plan, and me along with it. If she’s not here, I might have to throw in the towel.

My hands tighten on the steering wheel until the leather casing creaks. Losing her isn’t an option—even if it’s just for tonight.

Dust billows like an angry cloud upon my arrival at the arena. The grassy field surrounding it is packed with rigs of all shapes and sizes. I find an empty spot near the chuckwagon and slam the truck into park. My boots stomp across the gravel, spitting out rocks as a warning not to fuck with me. People grant me a wide berth while I storm toward the entry gate. That’s where I see her.

The knot in my chest loosens, but only the barest wiggle. Gemma is sitting astride Moe and chatting with some guy who’s hovering entirely too close to the bay gelding. This nobody pets her prize champion as if he has permission. In the next moment, I’m staking my claim on the opposite side of Moe’s neck.

“Wildflower.” There’s an edge of hostility in my tone reserved for the loser on the left, but my gaze is latched on Gemma like a magnet.

The freckles dotting the slope of her nose seem to dance when she peers down at me. “Well, look who we have here. My groom finally arrived. It’s hard to get reliable help these days.”

“You betcha,” the man drawls.

My jaw hardens into a concrete block. “May I have a word with you, Gem? In private.”

“Whatever you have to say can be said in front of this fine gentleman.”

On cue, the dude extends an open palm to me as if we can be amicable. “Name’s Richard. Put ‘er there.”