Page 37 of Ride the Sky

I grin back. I swear my brother can read my mind sometimes.

“Sittin’ it out feels strange as hell.”

A flash of caramel catches my eye, and I turn. I wouldn’t miss her in a crowd. Especially now.

A gasp goes up among the reporters. They and their cameras rush Fallon as she steps into the designated interview area. For abrief second, I see her hard-shell crack when she spies a cluster of little girls watching her from behind a barrier. She sticks out her tongue and wiggles her fingers at them.

Then she gets down to business.

Eyebrow lifted, Fallon clears her throat and turns to the reporters. “What do you bastards got?”

Chuckles among Pappy, the reporters. They love her.

As they sure as shit should. Fallon McGraw is what the reporters thrive on. Pretty. Popular. Dramatic. She’s fiery and fierce and doesn’t play by the rules. Even better—she’s not a man.

She’s not a rough stock star, she’s a rock star.

In the stark sunlight, she shines. Vest and chaps and jeans. Caramel hair tumbles around her shoulders. The sway of her hips, that gorgeous round ass…

No cowboy ever looked like that.

Ford laughs. “Close your mouth, Romeo.”

I growl and give him a shove. “Fuck off.”

Grinning, Charlie claps me on the back. “We’ll get seats.”

I dump my beer in the trash, lean back against a trailer, and watch the circus unfold.

Tripp bumbles behind her with her duffel bag. “Here,” he says, offering her a water bottle with a straw. Fallon looks bored but leans in to take the offered water, her eyes on the crowd in front of her.

Pappy, looking like a bratwurst in a suit, wraps his arm around Fallon and surveys the sea of eager reporters.

I grit my teeth. It’s evident Pappy’s dolled her up for today. I don’t like it. Don’t like any damn thing about him trotting her out like some sexy little package for the cameras.

“You.” Pappy selects a short, stocky guy from ESPN.

“What do you think about bull riding legend Cole Weston?”

Smiling her TV smile, Fallon says, “I think Cole Weston’s an asshole who doesn’t know what’s coming.”

After that, the reporters erupt, pushing in closer, mics outstretched.

“Fallon! Fallon McGraw!”

“Did you always want to ride bulls?”

“What score are you hoping for?”

“Who’s your trainer?”

“What’s it like working with Pappy Starr?”

“Are you single? Married?”

I hold back a scowl. Fallon’s face flushes. Eyes flashing, she lifts her chin and smoothly answers every question the reporters throw at her. When she’s finished, her gaze lands on me and stays a beat too long.

Picking up on the scent, the school of reporters suddenly turn. Wide eyes of recognition land on me.

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