Page 5 of Eight Seconds

“Well, it was a small class, I’ll give you that.” He hooks his thumbs into his belt loops. I lean against the door, letting this man dig his way through a conversation I’m not contributing to. He waits. I cross my arms across my chest. “All right. I was homeschooled, and my only other classmate was my cousin. Who’s four years younger than me.”

“Uh-huh.” I push off the back of Rooney’s trailer, turning for the door to my own quarters, which is halfway up the opposite side Wilder appeared on. I pull one arm across my chest, stretching it as I walk.

“You all right?” His voice follows me, and I roll my eyes.He’s not going away, then.

“I hauled some stupid cowboy off the dirt tonight. He was near death, and his grip was shit. I’ll be fine,” I throw over my shoulder as I aim for the tiny steps to my rig.

“Hey.” Wilder’s hand catches my opposite elbow so gently it stops me in my tracks. He turns me back to him, concern etched on his face. I take a beat to look at him. He really does have a beautiful face: clean-cut jaw, startling blue eyes, and full lips. There’s a near frown painting them and a little crease between his brows. All the casually cocky charm has vanished, leaving a man who’s trying his best to be sincere. “I just—well, thanks for that.”

“Wow,” I say, extracting myself from his hold. “That was almost more painful than the pulled muscle. ‘Thanks for that?’ You been working on that long?”

His mouth twists up in a half smile. It’s the first smile I’ve seen from him all night that looks genuine. Given freely like he can’t help himself, not because he thinks it’s what people want from him. It completely transforms him, and I stare in wonder as his shoulders relax and he pulls his hat from his head. His hair, the color of autumn wheat this close, spills from its confines, longer than most cowboys keep it, loose and luscious as it settles across his forehead. He holds his hat, turning the brim as a breathy half chuckle parts his lips. He chases it with a quick swipe of his tongue.

“Damn, Charlie, you’re busting my balls.” He looks at me, humor crinkling the skin around his eyes, but there’s honesty in the easy way he offers his hands up in supplication. “Thank you for getting me out of there tonight. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” I answer, then poke a finger at his chest. “Don’t call me ‘Charlie.’”

I don’t actually hate the nickname, and the stupid hormonal part of my brain that likes to remind me it feels good to be paid attention to is practically preening under Wilder’s attention. His aw-shucks, sweet country-boy behavior tickles all the right parts of me, and I hate it. I don’t need a distraction like this. Even one that comes in a beautiful six-foot, Wrangler-wrapped package.

Wilder reaches a hand to rub where I prodded him, his smile stretching across his face and a warm, full laugh filling the space between us. He sets his hat on his head, cocking it to the side as he takes me in, eyes traversing up and down my body like a caress.

“What are you doing tonight?” he asks. Before I can point out the obvious—that we’re standing on what amounts to my front porch—he hitches a thumb over his shoulder. “Want to come to the barn dance?”

I wrinkle my nose. The barn dance happens after every evening performance of the rodeo; a free event for ticketed patrons over the age of twenty-one to pretend they can have an authentic “Western experience.” A band plays country covers to a room of half-drunk cowboys looking to blow off steam and fully drunk audience members, some of whom are just looking for someone to blow given the chance. Uncle Tim makes a killing in marking up cheap beer and watered-down liquor, while the performers get to bask in the attention of the buckle bunnies and curious locals.

“I don’t usually go,” I hear myself say.That is not what I should be saying.

“Doesn’t sound like you’re telling me ‘no,’ but I can’t be sure.”

“I really can’t afford the distraction,” I try again.Still not right.But I also can’t really bring myself to wonder why I’m not flat-out refusing.

“The only barrels left tonight are the ones we use as tables, Charlie. Come have a drink with me,” Wilder takes a step closer to me. He smells like rich leather and sweet hay. “You don’t have to stay after that, but let me get you a beer for saving my life.”

I need to turn around and go inside my trailer, and lock the door against the heat radiating off his body. The heat practically coils and settles deep inside me, stoking the near-dead embers of my own fire. Even on my bottom step, I have to look up into his eyes, the blue a shade darker from this angle.

“I’m not old enough for a beer.” My mouth runs away from me, my brain scrambling to catch up. Wilder takes a half step back. “I just mean, my twenty-first isn’t until next month, so technically, I can’t have a beer.”

“This is your uncle’s rodeo, right?”

I nod at him. It’s not really a secret that Tim and I are related, but I don’t try to acknowledge it much, either. There’s no special treatment—having to ride recovery tonight should be proof of that—but I don’t ever want people to get the wrong impression.

“I’m sure we can work something out, then.” Wilder offers me his hand. “Charlie.”

I look at it and back to my trailer door.There’s a smart decision here, I tell myself. Instead of making it, I step down to the ground, starting in the direction of the barn, Wilder’s boots crunching quickly to catch up. I look over at him and the radiating cocky smile he has. I give him my best eye-roll at the triumphant way he sets his shoulders and takes a little step closer to me.

“Don’t call me Charlie,” I grumble at him.

* * *

The barn isn’t an actual building, just a large, canopied tent set off to the side of the parking lot. It’s compacted dirt with a rented dance floor and stage. The band is playing a Blake Shelton cover when we walk in, the scent of dust and spilled beer already strong, even if the music has only been going for about an hour. It’s loud, a little dirty, and the exact kind of environment I tend to stay away from. For the twentieth time since leaving my trailer, I’m wondering why the hell I’m here.

Aside from my legal status, I don’t drink. I don’t socialize. And I don’t stay out after 11 p.m., except when the rodeo runs long. I have a plan this season: be better than everyone through discipline and hard work andwin. I want to be the youngest world champion in PWRA history. Being here isnotpart of that plan.

Striding next to me, shaking hands with half a dozen cowboys, and tipping his hat at every woman who sighs his name, Wilder is clearly not having the same identity crisis. It doesn’t take more than a casual observation to see that he thrives in this environment. The swagger in his step, the fixed smile, and the little laugh he gives with a shake of his head put people at ease. They act like he’s a bright light, drawing the moths to it effortlessly. He was the same way in the arena. Only, as we draw up to the bar, I can see how obviously it doesn’t match his behavior at my trailer.

ThatWilder was self-deprecating, a little shy, and against my better judgment, charming.

“Charlotte, surprised to see you here, honey.” I nod at Rayna, our events manager. She’s working behind the bar, wild red hair pulled atop her head and brown eyes smiling warmly at me. She has a towel over her shoulder and a bar key hanging from her neck. I give her a smile in greeting.

---