Page 4 of Hawt Cowboy
“Bet you don’t let her get to you.”
I don’t answer. Truth:I let everyone get to me. I just don’t let them see it.
The PA crackles with feedback and a volunteer waves from the bullpen entrance. Reporters adjust their mics, the local news team tips a light higher, and the sponsor rep mouthsthank youat me over Cash’s shoulder.
“Ready?” I ask him.
He tips his hat, eyes gleaming like he’s already halfway into trouble. “For you, Savannah Brooks?” He lets my name roll slow, tasting it. “Always.”
I step aside so he can pass, refusing to give ground and doing it anyway. He brushes me on purpose. Not enough to count. Enough to feel.
As he moves toward the lights, the heat of the day crests and breaks, and the tent breathes cooler air that smells like rain that won’t come. I smooth my blazer, re-stack my mental note cards, and remind myself—aloud, because I need to hear it. “Outcomes, not likes.”
Across the boards, Cash takes his place in front of the mics. He looks once over his shoulder, straight at me, and the smallest corner of his mouth lifts like we share a private joke no one else heard.
I square my shoulders and raise my hand to cue the first question. If I’m careful -- if I keep my feet under me and my heart where it belongs -- I can do this job and walk away clean.
But as the first camera light pops hot and white, the Oklahoma evening presses closer, and I feel that old tug … the one that says falling isn’t always a mistake.
Sometimes it’s the plan you didn’t know you were making.
Chapter 4
Cash
Studio lights always feel hotter after a ride. Maybe it’s the adrenaline wearing off, maybe it’s the part of me that would rather be on the back of a bull than in front of a microphone. Either way, the bulbs beat down, and the sweat on my neck turns to steam.
I know the drill. Smile. Tip the hat. Act like the cameras and I are old friends. But she’s standing just outside the ring of light—Savannah Brooks, arms folded, eyes sharp. The curve of her mouth is all business, but the pulse at her throat gives her away.
She’s wound tight, worried about what I might say or do next. I’m half tempted to see what would happen if I tugged just one thread on her jacket.
She’s shorter than I thought, all curves and confidence. The kind of woman who makes a man forget what he was about to say.
“Another record tonight, Cash,” a reporter calls. “Feels good?”
“Always does.” I let the grin slide slow. “’Course, the bulls might disagree.”
The crowd chuckles. Flash. Another question. Something about the circuit standings. I answer on autopilot, but my focus keeps drifting. She’s making little notes on a tablet. Every now and then she glances up to check that I’m behaving. That look—God help me—it’s better than the roar of any crowd.
Eight years I’ve been chasing that roar. It’s the only thing that ever filled the hollow my old man left behind when he walked out. He said ranching was for fools, took his paycheck and disappeared. I started riding before I was ready just to prove I could hang on longer than he did. The buckle trophies fill one wall of the house, but they don’t make the nights any quieter.
“Cash, can we get a shot for the Ledger?” someone yells.
I nod, crouch, flash the smile they pay me for. The cameras click like insects. Somewhere behind them I hear her voice, elevated but professional.
“That’s enough for now, gentlemen.”
The command in it sends a charge through me. She’s got that boss tone down to an art. I straighten, roll my shoulders, and turn toward her.
“Handled me good back there,” I murmur as we start to move away from the press. “Almost looked like you enjoyed it.”
“I handle situations, not people,” she says. “You just happen to be the situation.”
She doesn’t look up, but I catch the corner of her mouth twitch before she hides it. That almost-smile hits harder than any applause.
Outside the tent, night’s settling over the fairgrounds. The lights from the rides blink red and blue across the dust. Somewhere a band’s starting up, fiddle sharp and quick. The airsmells like hay, fried food, and rain. A storm’s thinking about rolling in.
I pull the brim of my hat lower. “You ever been to a rodeo dance, Brooks?”
