Page 11 of Buck Me, Cowboy

He stops what he’s doing and looks at me, something vulnerable flickering in his expression. “No. It didn’t.”

The admission hangs between us, heavy with implication. We’re supposed to be helping each other out—him having a distraction from his uncertain future, me getting magazine coverage formy competition. But somewhere along the way, the lines have blurred beyond recognition.

“What does that mean for us?”

“I don’t know.” He steps closer, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his hazel eyes. “But I know I don’t want this to end when the fair does.”

My heart hammers against my ribs as I process his words. This cowboy, who could have any woman he wants, is standing in front of me, admitting he doesn’t want our fake relationship to stay fake.

“Amos—”

“Think about it,” he says quietly. “That’s all I’m asking. Just think about whether what we have is worth exploring.”

As he walks away, leaving me alone with my cart and my racing thoughts, I already know the answer. What we have feels like the most real thing that’s ever happened to me.

The question is whether I’m brave enough to risk everything to find out if he feels the same way.

“If I wintomorrow’s competition, the distribution contract could mean everything.”

I measure cumin into small glass bowls, organizing mymise en placefor the next day’s judged competition. The exhibition hall has mostly emptied except for a few dedicated competitors doing final prep work. The overhead lights cast harsh shadows across the cooking stations, but I’ve grown comfortable in this spaceover the past few days. Even without Grady’s help, everything has gone perfectly and easily.

Amos appeared twenty minutes ago without explanation, settling into the chair beside my prep table like he belongs there. Instead of feeling crowded, his presence has become surprisingly soothing.

“Your grandfather would be proud of how you’re fighting for his legacy.”

The comment makes me pause in my measuring. “How do you know that matters to me?”

“Because I watch you and I pay attention.” His voice carries something deeper than casual interest. “This isn’t just a hobby for you. Your voice changes when you talk about your family and this chili—you’re clearly invested in creating something greater than yourself.”

The observation catches me completely off guard. In three days, this cowboy has seen something in me that people in my life have missed entirely. The recognition sends warmth spreading through my chest.

“What about you? What are you passionate about besides riding bulls?”

He’s quiet for so long that I wonder if he heard the question. When he finally speaks, his voice carries a vulnerability I haven’t heard before.

“Honestly? I’m still figuring that out. My dad was famous in his world, but he couldn’t stick around long enough to teach me to tie my shoes. I’ve spent so long focused on the next ride, the next prize, that I never thought about what I was building toward. I’veavoided settling down because I didn’t think it was in my blood. I do now.”

The admission hits me unexpectedly. Beneath his confidence lies someone searching for the same kind of belonging I’ve taken for granted my entire life.

“You must be lonely.”

“I was.” He meets my eyes. “Until I met you.”

The words hang between us, and the boundaries of this fake relationship blur. As I process what he’s really saying, I stop moving and rest my hands on the spice containers.

“Amos—”

“You have this incredible family that grounds you. Roots that go back generations. I watch you with your grandfather’s photos, the way you touch that necklace when you talk about your grandmother, and I realize I’ve never had anything like that.”

Without thinking, I reach out and touch his face, my palm cupping his jaw. His skin is warm beneath my fingers, rough with evening stubble that sends tiny shivers up my arm. “Family isn’t just blood. It’s also the people you choose.”

He covers my hand with his, pressing my palm more firmly against his face. The contact sends electricity shooting straight to my core, but it’s the expression in his eyes that goes straight to my heart—hungry and hopeful and achingly vulnerable.

“Rebecca.” My name comes out rough.

We lean toward each other without conscious decision, drawn by a magnetism that’s been building since that first morning when he helped me with my cart. His breath mingles with mine, warmand coffee-scented, and I see the exact moment his gaze drops to my mouth.

My heart pounds so hard I’m sure he can hear it. This isn’t performance or strategy—this is pure want, the culmination of three days of growing attraction and deepening connection. When his free hand slides into my hair, angling my face toward his, I part my lips in anticipation.

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