Page 4 of Buck Me, Cowboy

I tell myself I’m being friendly. But the truth fills my chest and heart in a way I’ve never felt before—I want to see her again. Ineedto see her again. I want to taste whatever she’s cooking – whether it’s chili or anything else. I want to watch her eyes light up when she talks about honoring her grandfather’s legacy.

Everything in my body and soul aches to be with her.

The exhibition hallbuzzes with energy as the chili cooks work at their prep stations. The air carries a dozen different mouth-watering aromas—garlic, cumin, smoke, heat—but the only chili I’m interested in is Rebecca’s.

She stands behind her station wearing an apron over jeans and a fitted t-shirt that hugs her curves. Her dark hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and she’s completely focused on stirring the simmering pot. Behind her is a photo that I assume is her grandfather, laughing at a picnic, surrounded presumably by his children and grandchildren.

“This smells incredible.” I approach slowly, relishing watching her do something she obviously loves.

She glances up, and I catch the slight surprise in her expression before she gives me a big smile. “Amos. What brings you to the cooking competition?”

“Curiosity.” I gesture toward her pot, but stare deep into her blue eyes. “If you’re willing to share a taste with me.”

She ladles a small portion into a paper cup, steam rising between us. “Tell me what you think, cowboy.”

The first spoonful stops me cold. Heat builds slowly on my tongue, layered with smoky depth and spices I can’t identify.

“Damn, darlin’. That’s got some serious heat. I like things with a little spice.”

Her eyebrow arches, and a playful look sparks in her eyes. “You say you want spice, cowboy, but can youreallyhandle it?”

The challenge in her voice makes my pulse zoom faster than when I’m on a bull. I lean closer, genuinely intrigued by this woman who doesn’t seem impressed by championship buckles or rodeo charm. “Try me, Spice Girl. I’ve been riding angry bulls since I was sixteen. I think I can handle whatever heat you’re serving.”

“Bulls are predictable. They buck hard, then they’re done.” Her eyes hold mine, direct and unapologetic. “My kind of heat builds slow and lasts all night.”

I cough quickly and shift how I’m standing, my jeans suddenly too tight as blood rushes south and wakes up my cock. The provocation in her tone makes me want to throw her over my shoulder and see what else she likes to do with that sassy mouth. The way she’s flirting with me is different from the calculated, empty flirting of the women who throw themselves at me. Rebecca is a woman who knows exactly what she’s offering and clearly expects me to prove I’m worthy of it.

“Well now, that sounds like a promise I’d like to see you keep.”

I take another taste, deliberately licking my lip as I savor the complex flavors. Her gaze tracks the movement, and her pupils dilate slightly. When our fingers brush as she hands me a napkin, I don’t pull away immediately.

“Your grandpa?” I nod toward the photo behind her.

“It is, yes.” Pride fills her voice as she points to different faces. “He taught me everything about cooking. My family means everything to me.”

The wistfulness that hits me must show on my face.

She studies my expression with sudden gentleness. “What about your family?”

“It’s complicated. Being a cowboy is a hard life.”

I deflect by asking how long she’s been cooking and competing. She shares her dreams about the distribution contract, how winning is something she wants to do to honor her grandfather.

I find myself genuinely interested, asking questions about her grandfather’s methods, the way she describes balancing flavors like an artist mixing paint. This isn’t small talk. I want to understand what drives her, what makes her eyes brighten when she talks about preserving family legacy – and the more I talk to Rebecca, the more I’m deeply impressed with her.

“Excuse me, I’m Polly Williamson from Heartland Tastes magazine.”

We both turn as a polished woman approaches with a photographer in tow. She carries herself with professional confidence, tablet in hand and press badge hanging from her neck.

“I’m chatting with all the competitors. We’re doing a feature on the winners and mentions for the runners-up. I’d love to talk to you about your story—oh, I didn’t know you had your husband with you. We’d love to talk to you both.”

Rebecca’s expression is startled, then a shadow of disappointment clouds her eyes. “Oh, we’re not—”

Polly Williamson continues as if she didn’t hear Rebecca. “We love featuring stories about couples building something together. Much more appealing to our readership than single competitors.”

I instantly understand the importance this publicity would mean for Rebecca. This magazine feature could change everything for her—the visibility, the credibility, just getting her name out there. If fudging things a little helps her get what she wants, it’s worth any awkwardness.

“We’d be happy to talk. My girlfriend has an incredible story for you.”

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