Page 10 of Buck Me, Cowboy

I nearly drop the paper cup of chili I’m holding. “Are you serious?” I whisper. My heart and mind are racing.

“Girl, you don’t need me to tell you this chili isn’t just good—it’s blue ribbon good. Even Thor, my boyfriend who thinks bean chili is a travesty, even he loved it.” Sam reaches up and smooths her hand over her dark hair, then straightens as she smiles at me.

“That’s…” I stare at Sam, my mind in overdrive as I think of what to say. “Thank you.”

“Rebecca, you have something special here. However everything goes, you’ve earned it. I hope to see you around.”

“Likewise,” I say, watching as Thor, who was one of the judges for the no-bean chili competition, comes over looking at her like she hung all the stars in the sky. He’s tall and smiling, and clearly deeply infatuated with Sam.

“Good luck,” Thor says, smiling at me as he wraps his arms around Sam and gives her a big kiss. “I’ve been on the circuit a while, so believe me when I say you’ve got a good thing here. I hope to see a lot more of you.”

I stand there, stunned as I watch them walk away and replaying what Sam said. It’s like, I know my chili is good, but there’s still the fear that someone else’s isbetterand I won’t make it past the semis. I’m also scared about the finals, because the competition will be stiff.

“Need any help, Spice Girl?”

I turn to find Amos approaching with a sexy swagger that makes me want to jump on him. He’s changed out of his rodeo gear into dark jeans and a button-down shirt that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders.

“I thought you’d be off signing autographs or something.”

“I’d rather be here.” He steps behind my booth without invitation, surveying the setup with genuine interest. “What can I do?”

The offer surprises me. He seems genuinely invested in helping me succeed.

“You could help serve samples, if you want,” I say, standing aside behind my table to make room for him. “But don’t be a distraction, okay?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it. You’re the star here. I’m just backup.”

For the next hour, we work together with surprising ease. Amos chats with fairgoers while I focus on the chili, but he defers to me at every turn. When someone asks about ingredients, he steps back and lets me explain. He’s a much bigger star here than I am, but he goes out of his way not to steal any attention from me. I’m surprised and appreciative of his generosity and respect.

I’m standing in front of my table, good-naturedly laughing as I talk to a man who’s trying to tell me no-bean chili is the bestchili, when someone behind me bumps into me and makes me stumble backward. As I reach out to keep from falling, suddenly Amos’s hands are around my waist, steadying me with firm pressure that sends heat shooting through my core.

“You okay?” he asks, his hazel eyes intent on mine.

“Fine. Just—” The words stick in my throat as I become acutely aware of his proximity. His chest is inches from my back, his hands spanning my waist. My breath catches as his touch makes me yearn for him.

“Rebecca?”

I should step away. We’re supposed to be performing a relationship, not creating actual intimacy in front of half the county. But his touch feels too good, too right, and I find myself leaning back against his solid warmth instead of pulling away.

“I’m fine,” I manage, but my voice comes out breathier than intended.

His hands linger longer than necessary before he releases me, and when I turn to face him, something heated passes between us. The way we’ve been working together, the growing comfort of his presence—it’s all building toward something that feels increasingly real.

Dangerous thoughts flood my mind. What would it be like to spend the night with him?Reallyspend the night, not just the performance we’ve been maintaining. How would those strong hands feel exploring my body? What sounds would he make when I touched him? What if we built something for longer than a few days?

I clench my thighs together, trying to control the way my clit throbs as I imagine him backing me against a wall, his mouth hot on my neck, his hands roaming my body. The fantasy is so vivid that I have to grab the edge of the table to steady myself.

“Rebecca.” His voice has dropped to something rough and intimate. “You’re looking at me like—”

“Like what?” I challenge, meeting his gaze directly despite the fire building in my cheeks.

“Like you’re thinking the same thing I am.”

Before I can respond, another wave of fairgoers approaches our booth, and we’re forced back into performance mode. But the tension between us has ratcheted up several degrees, and every touch—his hand on my lower back, my fingers brushing his when we both reach for the same spoon—feels charged in a new way.

As the evening winds down and we pack up together, working in comfortable synchronization, I realize something has fundamentally shifted. The easy partnership, the way he supports without overwhelming, the growing heat between us—none of it feels fake anymore.

“This didn’t feel fake today,” I admit quietly as we load the last of my equipment onto the cart to take everything back to the kitchen hall.

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