Page 14 of Eight Seconds

“I’m not sure it isn’tmybirthday, Charlie. Look at you all wrapped up like a pretty present.”

It’s a strong line, but the sweet smile on Wilder’s face as he looks at me tempers the heat behind it a little, meaning I don’t feel any expectation from it. He lifts a hand, taking mine to help me down the two steps to the floor. His hand is so much larger than mine, rough and warm. I expect him to let go once I’m on the ground. Instead, he boldly laces our fingers, patiently waiting as I secure the door. He places his hat on his head and turns us toward the main path of the grounds.

Weaving through trailers and trucks, we keep our conversation to light topics: the day’s weather, the conditions of the arena, and our schedules for the next few weeks. It’s safe. Easy.

“So, are you going to actually drink anything if I get it for you tonight?” Wilder changes subjects as we get closer to the event, the increasing hum of the band pulling us in. Deadwood’s rodeo grounds allow for the dance to be held inside an actual barn, a fact I am grateful for as Wilder pulls me toward him to dodge a murky puddle. He drops my hand in favor of slipping the same arm behind me, keeping me close to him. The faded red building has warm white bistro lights hanging in the eaves, and bales of hay stacked outside the doors soak up the remnants from the storm.

The cautious part of my brain should be sending up red flares at the way Wilder is using the terrain to touch and be close to me, but I feel no threat, no concern that he’s taking liberties I’m uncomfortable giving. Instead, I let myself lean a little more than is strictly necessary into him to avoid a thick patch of mud. I flick my eyes over to him. He walks in stride with me, never trying to press us forward, and he’s relaxed as he waits for my answer.

“I don’t really drink, and it goes against my training plan,” I reply. The double doors of the barn are open, spilling light onto our path. I slow for a step or two before stopping, Wilder immediately halting when I slip from the loose hold he’s kept me in. He looks back over his shoulder. “All of this,” I gesture between us, “goes against my training plan.”

I’m trying to remember my “fun and flirty” mantra, but as it cycles through my head, each word echoes more hollow than the last. I don’t know if I canbefun and flirty. They are two words I’ve never considered using to describe myself, and I highly doubt anyone who knows me would use them either.

Gutsy. Adventurous.But not fun.

Antagonistic. Combative.But not flirty.

My prior interactions with the man in front of me are perfect examples of these characteristics.

I didn’t havefunwith Wilder. I hauled him from certain harm as the result of a dangerous occupational hazard.

I didn’tflirtwith Wilder. I verbally spared and awkwardly demanded he take me out tonight.

“You can want to win and still have a life, Charlotte.” He wedges his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, waiting. I look past him to the barn, warm and welcoming with the sound of twin acoustic guitars and a tender baritone voice working through a Morgan Wallen song. The light casts Wilder in a perfectly roguish and sexy cowboy silhouette. Temptation and trepidation war within me in equal measure as my plans tilt precariously on a knife edge.

He’s right. I know enough about Wilder McCoy to realize that he has living and winning figured out. He can do both. And it’s that kind of vitality, the ease and joy he carries with him, that pulled me in.

I don’t want to fight the way his cocky smiles send my heart racing. I don’t want to ignore the throb of my core when his innuendos wrap around me with promise. I don’t want anyone else to know what his real smile looks like. I don’t want to be scared of what these thoughts and feelings mean.

“I don’t want to be just another girl that walks away with a story of a ‘Wild night,’” I confess, instinctively wrapping my arms around my middle. It’s the first time I dare breathe life to the possibility of something developing between us.

In two strides, Wilder is in front of me, hands trailing down my arms to work them loose until he can rest one on my hip. He is sure and steady, hooking a finger under my chin, lifting until I’m forced to look him in the eyes. The openness and honesty in his gaze have me letting out a breath of relief.

“Charlie, it might look like I live my life eight seconds at a time, but I promise you, I want more than that with you.” His hand traces gently along my jaw until his fingers thread through my hair, cradling the back of my head as he steps closer. “You’re not another high I’m chasing. You’re not another way to keep the loneliness at bay.”

“Then what am I?” I hear the vulnerability in my own voice, pleading with him to understand. To not hurt me because I’m going to allow myself to want this. I’m going to allow myself to wanthim.

Wilder’s fingers flex at my hip, holding tighter as he pulls me until there’s only our breath between us, his forehead dropping to rest against my own. I close my eyes, the nearness of him all-consuming.

“I think you could beeverything,” he whispers against my lips before chasing the words with a heated kiss.

8

WILDER

ON THE ROAD — JUNE

This hotel in Taos leaves something to be desired. It was a splurge instead of hauling my trailer this weekend. A chance to have unlimited hot water and a shower I can turn around in without hitting my elbows. But the refrigerator hums loudly, and the sheets are scratchy.

And there’s a distinct absence of a raven-haired cowgirl.

It’s been a week since I kissed Charlotte Stryker, and my life is never going to be the same. I don’t know how I know that. I’ve never been one for a commitment beyond the sunrise, haven’t bothered to try and be more than a good time and a good story, but all of that has changed.

Now, I want to be more. Give more. And that starts with Charlotte.

I lean back against the uneven pillows on this king-sized bed, then pull my phone from my pocket, opening my text thread with the girl I’m missing.

Me

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