Page 28 of Eight Seconds

“That effort clearly shows during your rides. You must have excellent hip flexors. Tell me, how do you practice moving like that?” Blondie steps closer, the interview clearly going off-script with her forwardness.

“I had an excellent coach.” Wilder steps back, bumping into the barrel behind him. It cuts him off at the knee, forcing him to plop down awkwardly on his ass. It puts him at eye level with her chest.

“Had?” The innocent question is coupled with a smile so saccharine and cloying that I nearly gag at its poorly veiled proposition. Lucky for me, I watch as she doubles down on her efforts. “Does that mean the position is open? I have a few ideas that might help.”

The woman isn’t even pretending to record anything at this point. She just pushes her tits a little closer to his face. Wilder, for his part, is looking anywhere but directly in front of him, all confidence drained. Having my fill of her desperate attempt to flirt with my cowboy, I take pity on both of them, stepping forward from my perch.

“The position you’re angling for is filled, sweetheart,” I say, squeezing myself between them, securing a spot on Wilder’s lap. The tension in his shoulders immediately disappears, and he wraps his arms around me.

“Oh,” she says, stepping back, looking embarrassed. She clears her throat, tucking away her phone. “Thanks, Wilder. Bye.”

Then, with a curt nod, she turns on her new boot heel and walks away.

“Did you ask to see her identification?” I tease Wilder as he holds me tighter. He presses a kiss to my shoulder, and I twist to lift an eyebrow at him.

“Was I supposed to? She said she was with Horizon.” Wilder seems genuinely baffled. I tap his cheek twice, standing before offering my hand back to him. He laces our fingers together as we weave through the crowd.

“I would bet my winnings that tonight is the first time that woman haseverbeen near a horse, much less knows anything about a rodeo. Her boots still had a tag hanging on them.” I scoff.

“Wasn’t looking at her boots, baby,” Wilder says, smirking. I grip his hand. Hard. He laughs. “I was looking at her face. One of her fake eyelashes was drooping. It was horribly distracting.”

I look over my shoulder, as if I can catch a glance of the woman again, and look back at Wilder. He holds up a finger of his other hand, angling it down at the corner of his eye, wiggling it back and forth. His crude approximation of a poorly attached fake eyelash has me laughing until my sides hurt.

“I thought it was a spider at first.” Wilder laughs with me. “Then, it became something to focus on when she got all…handsy.”

The most pronounced blush I’ve ever seen on him paints his whole face bright pink, and he shivers at the recollection. We turn into the back parking lot where his truck is parked. It’s in the last row; the surrounding spots empty as competitors and employees have left for the night.

“As if you’re some wilting wallflower under the attention of a pretty woman.” I poke his side as I round the tailgate of the black Ford, shaking my head as I make for the passenger side. Familiar, strong arms wrap around my middle, tipping me off-balance and making it easier for Wilder to spin me and press me against the chilled metal of the truck. His arms cage me in, but I don’t feel trapped. If anything, being kept in his embrace makes me feel safe. Happy. Loved.

“If I hadn’t made it clear, Charlie, let me say it now so there’s no confusion.” Wilder takes his hat off, throwing it into the open bed behind me, shaggy hair falling around his face. I can’t resist reaching up and pushing it back, away from blocking his beautiful eyes. They bore into mine, open and honest, the vulnerability he only allows me to see on display. I keep one hand buried in his hair, stroking behind his ear softly while hooking a finger of the other into a belt loop of his jeans, anchoring him to me. “You, Charlotte Stryker, are the only woman I want attention from.”

The simplicity of his statement, but the weight of his stare, makes the breath catch in my throat. He rids me of my hat, discarding it to find his in the back of the truck, a single finger wrapping around a chunk of hair that has strayed from the ponytail I wore tonight. He toys with the strands, trailing the calloused pad along my cheek until he reaches my lips, tracing the fullness there. His eyes follow each movement. I take in every minuscule change in his pupils, the way they expand and contract based on what he touches or thinks. It’s achingly intimate to have him caress and cradle me with little more than a finger and a few words.

“These are the only lips I want to kiss.” He follows through, pressing a sweet, gentle kiss before pulling away. I lean forward, chasing more of what he can give. It makes him quirk a smile at me and exhale a small laugh. Wilder’s finger is traveling again, down my throat, over the swell of my breasts to the apex of my thighs and back. “This is the only body I want pressing against mine every night.” He steps closer so our hips press against each other. I can barely enjoy the heat of him, the outline of his hardening cock, when his finger taps at the space above my heart. He swipes aside the unbuttoned collar of my shirt, putting his hand inside. Skin on skin, he flattens his wide palm, undoubtedly feeling how the rhythm increases as he stays there. “And this is the only heart I can trust my own with.”

Wilder slides his other arm behind my back, holding me as close as he can as my heartbeat skyrockets from the way he looks at me. Like I’m something new and precious. I grip the back of his neck tighter and wait when his lips part again.

“I love you, Charlotte,” he tells me, shrugging his shoulders. “It’s really that simple: I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else.”

I don’t realize there are tears on my cheeks until Wilder begins to collect them with his thumb, flicking them aside, taking all the rest of my cowardice and excuses with them. In the salty residue they leave behind, I feel my skin crinkle with the intensity of my smile. It must look a little crazy, but Wilder’s answering one is nearly blinding. I giggle and press onto my toes, kissing him fiercely. Before he can react, I pull back to look up through my lashes at him. He just drops his forehead against my own.

“I’m in love with you, too,” I finally tell him, and suddenly I feel weightless. The confession I’ve secretly carried within for months is out, and every breath I take feels like a brand-new life. I feel the need to say it again, emphasizing just how much I mean it. “Iloveyou, Wilder.”

16

CHARLOTTE

KILLEEN, TEXAS — OCTOBER

“You sure you feel okay?” Wilder asks me. Again. He stands nearby as I do a final check of my saddle, pulling the colored twists of Rooney’s mane free to better show off the turquoise gingham ribbons I added at the last minute. They perfectly balance the simple black and white gingham button-down I wear and Wilder’s turquoise western shirt. He’s added the black and white pattern to the band of his hat in the form of a small bow today. He caught a lot of shit for it as we walked through the staging area together, but seeing it makes my heart flutter. Of course, that could be the fever I’ve been trying to hide from him all day.

The damn man knows something is going on, and he won’t stophovering.

“I’mfine,” I say, in what I hope is a light and convincing manner, as I pull my hat off the saddle horn and over my forehead to hide the sweat I know is starting to bead there. Racing today is not my smartest decision, but I’m not going to let a pesky one-hundred-and-two fever or a little earache that feels like a railroad spike being driven into my head keep me from the last rodeo before the end of the season. I sway slightly when Rooney’s hip checks my side.

“The fuck you are.” Wilder’s hands are on my shoulders as he dips his head to look into my eyes. His own widen for a moment before his hands are on my cheeks. His fingers feel blessedly cool, and I can’t help but press into them, seeking relief. “Baby, you’re burning up.”

“I won’t be as soon as the acetaminophen kicks in. I took it almost thirty minutes ago. Had to time it right to be the most effective by race time,” I tell him, closing my eyes for just a moment as he cradles me gently. “Any second now, the throbbing in my head will stop, and you won’t be able to fry an egg on my skin. Then Rooney and I will go win.”

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