Page 13 of Eight Seconds

“Is it really winning when no one else could finish?” Wilder turns so his shoulder leans against my rig, bright eyes watching me as I get a fair amount of the mud off my boots. I look up at him and offer a shrug.

“Winning is winning. What are you doing here, Cowboy?” I ask. I know I shouldn’t be entertaining him. I shouldn’t want him to be around. I shouldn’t risk the distraction. I shouldn’t want the one bright spot on this shitty night to be when he was close enough to me that I could breathe in the light, sweet scent of hay that still clung to him in the damp air.

I shouldn’t, but I do.

Wilder’s cheeks flare with a high flush, there one moment and gone the next, chased by a boyish grin. He thrusts the package wrapped with a reflective green paper at me. One corner is a little wonky, crumpled instead of folded, indicating he wrapped it himself. My heart gives a dangerous flutter at the realization that he’s put effort into this.

“Happy birthday, Charlie.”

“How did you know?” I can’t keep the shock from showing on my face or being clear in my voice. My fingers curl over the box, suddenly finding everything about it even more precious.

“You told me.” Wilder shrugs. I bite the bottom of my lip, trying to remember when I said something, releasing the flesh when the memory hits.

“But I never said what day it was.” I narrow my eyes suspiciously at him, rising from my perch on the step. Standing on it, we’re nearly nose to nose. At this level, I can see the way the floodlights of the staging area highlight the striations of dark blue in his eyes. I find myself wanting to lean forward to examine them more closely, just like the night of the barn dance when I saw his scar. I flick my eyes to it for a moment, as though I need the reminder I didn’t imagine it. That it wasn’t the result of a dream. Just like everything else about Wilder these last few weeks, my curiosity has evolved into a desire to know more. I catch myself on the handle near the hinges of the door just as Wilder’s hand comes up to steady me at my hip.

“I may have asked around,” Wilder replies. His hand feels sturdy against me, the heel balanced against my hip bone, and his fingers curling over my wide belt to fan against the small of my back. “You going to open it?”

Wilder’s hold drops away, making me miss his touch immediately, and curse myself at the same time for doing so. Carefully, I pull at the wrapping, awkwardly folding it with one hand before shoving it into my back pocket. Wilder takes half a step back as I lift the lid on the simple cardboard gift box. He holds the lid as I flip open the tissue paper to reveal a set of ribbons matching the same vibrant emerald hue as the wrapping paper. They’re made of a delicate lace that’s soft to the touch. Tucked in the corner is a pair of bows in the same color but made of satin. They’re small, made to go at the end of a braid or tucked into a half-updo.

I stare at them, conflicting emotions waging war within me. They’re just ribbons and bows, the kind I see for sale on the vendor stalls at every rodeo I ride in. But they’re so much more than that, and I’m overwhelmed by the gesture.

A finger, calloused and gentle, brushes against my cheek, taking with it a tear I didn’t feel escape. I look up as Wilder gives a soft smile.

“Hope you don’t have that color.” He removes one of the bows. It looks even smaller in his hand, but he touches its curve with a finger before threading it into the bottom of my braid. He stares at it a moment longer, satisfied, before speaking again. “They reminded me of your eyes.”

“Thank you.” I can barely push the words out, but I find his gaze when I do, hoping he can see how deeply this matters to me. He might not be able to read the fact that this is the only gift I received this year, or that I know it means he’s been paying attention because I don’t have this color in my collection. He can’t see how hard I’ve tried to fight the loneliness that comes with being on the road alone, or how deeply the lack of my family’s emotional support cuts. But I can tell Wilder sees enough.

“So,” he begins, letting the moment slip past without giving it a name. He returns to his spot against my trailer, one thumb hooked lazily into a belt loop and an affable grin on his face. “What are your big birthday plans?”

I consider being truthful: I was going to shower, eat cold pizza from last night, and watch10 Things I Hate About Youfor the millionth time. But as I think more about my plans and the man patiently waiting for an answer, I realize there’s something else I want more. Something that goes against every part of my championship season plan. Something I’m feeling selfish enough to go after tonight.

“You’re taking me to the barn dance.”

Wilder’s surprise shows for just a moment before he clicks his tongue against his teeth and cocks his head to the side. “Am I now?”

“Yep,” I answer definitively, warming to my impulsive decision. “Be back in fifteen minutes.”

“You’re serious.” It isn’t a question, and the mirth in his eyes has me loosening up, offering my own saucy smile in return.

“Absolutely.” I pull the latch on my door, then stoop to pick up my boots. The boots balance precariously on my forearm as I clutch the gift box in one hand and use the other to keep the door from knocking me from the step. I feel as off-balance as I look, but excitement overpowers any other emotions. “Fifteen minutes. Clean shirt.”

Without looking back, I slip inside. The door closes with a snap at my back, Wilder’s deep laugh fading as he walks away, and reality crashes into me.

I just asked out Wilder McCoy.

* * *

The green and white floral cotton dress I picked out feels too simple and too much at the same time. Long sleeves keep the chill of the night at bay, but a hem that twirls just above my knees keeps it fun and flirty. And that’s exactly what I’ve told myself for the last fifteen minutes as I showered, dressed, and dug out another pair of boots:tonight is about being fun and flirty.

As I stand in front of the small mirror of the bathroom, I work apart the long French braid I’ve kept my hair in for the rodeo. The slightly damp strands tangle as I finger-comb it loose. I pull the front up and away from my face and secure it with an elastic, wrapping it with the lace ribbons from Wilder’s gift. They stand out against the inky darkness of the hair cascading down my back. I smile, staring at the pop of color, warmth filling my chest again at the thoughtful gesture.

There are butterflies in my stomach as I swipe a coat of mascara on my lashes. The fluttering matches the pulse of nerves I can’t help as I blot off the excess ruby stain on my lips. It was completely out of my nature to proposition Wilder the way I did. If abandoning my strict plan to train and race until I’m champion wasn’t concern enough to doubt this little adventure tonight, the reputation that clings to Wilder like the jeans he favors should be. But I’m actively choosing to ignore any possibility of regret. I’m taking this chance for myself.

Two sharp raps announce his arrival. With a final look in the mirror, I open the door.

Wilder stands, hat respectfully in hand, hair damp and pushed back off his face. He’s wearing a café-au-lait-colored plaid shirt tucked into dark-wash jeans. He’s changed out the large riding buckle he wore for the rodeo, replacing it with a simple oval stamped with a longhorn skull. My eyes linger there, torn away by his low whistle. I worry about being caught, but I don’t feel my cheeks heat when I look at Wilder’s face.

His eyes are all over me, caressing up and down my form. They start at the expanse of skin between the hem of my dress and my boots, tracing up to the curve of my hips and up, slowly drinking in the swell of my breasts, lingering as I lick my lips before finally locking with my gaze.

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