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First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2019

Copyright © D. R. Graham 2019

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Cover design © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2019

D. R. Graham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008328399

Ebook Edition © January 2019 ISBN: 9780008328382

Version: 2018-12-18

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Epilogue

Other books by D. R. Graham

Acknowledgements

Also by D. R. Graham

About the Author

About HarperImpulse

About the Publisher

To Integrity

Chapter 1
Della

And there goes my tea. Over the railing. Onto the library concourse. Shoot. “Sorry,” I shout to the students walking below who had to jump back to avoid the spray of scalding liquid. Mortified that I could have maimed someone, I gather my transfer papers, stuff them into my bag, and rush down the stairs to clean up the mess before anyone slips.

No paper towels nearby. Awesome. Guess I’ll have to use the silk scarf in my bag to soak up the tea. Actually, come to think of it, this isn’t my scarf. It’s my sister’s. She’s going to kill me. Unfortunately, I don’t have a better option.

I should have known it wasn’t going to be my day. There was no hot water in the shower at the sketchy motel I’m temporarily staying at. My car, although it made it through the seventeen-hour drive to get me here, wouldn’t start this morning. I had to take the bus, which made me late. Then I showed up for my first engineering course, only to find out I wasn’t even on the class list. Sorting it out meant waiting in line at the registrar’s office for over an hour.

At least the tea didn’t burn anyone. I sigh and pick up the paper cup to drop it in the recycling bin. I might as well throw the scarf in the garbage while I’m at it. It’s soaked and stained beyond repair. And my phone fell in the trash with it. Of course, now, the phone is ringing.

I reach elbow deep into the bin to fish it out. Ew. Whatever that was, it’s sticky. “Hello?”

It’s my cousin Stuart, my saving grace. “Everley is able to meet you at the house to give you a key, but it has to be this morning. Can you swing that?”

“Oh. I don’t know, Stuart. I have class. And I’d need to take transit.” I twist my phone to look at the time. I’ll be late if I try to squeeze in a visit before my next class. “Does it have to be right now?”

“Do you want to spend another night in that rat-infested motel?”

“No.” Absolutely not. “Okay. Thank you for setting up a place for me to live. I’d be lost here without you.”

“It’s Stanford not New York. You’d be fine without me, but I’m happy to help you any way I can. Hold on a second.” He speaks to someone away from the phone briefly before he comes back on the line. “Some sort of disaster has come up with one of the model’s outfits. I need to get back to the studio. Do you still have the address for the house?”

“Yeah, somewhere. Thanks for everything.” I hang up and search through my bag as I walk towards the bus stop. I wrote the address on the back of a receipt. Somewhere.

Stuart is a famous photographer who lives in San Francisco now, but he graduated from Stanford and knows a lot of people here. Which is great since finding available housing at this time of year is a challenge. He’s made arrangements for me to rent a room in a shared house with three other women who are post-grad Stanford students. The one named Everley has done some fashion modeling for him. They probably won’t be the type of women I would normally be friends with, but it doesn’t matter. I’m here to study not socialize. As long as they don’t throw huge parties every night it should be fine to live with three strangers.

I hope.

I definitely don’t want to have to go back to that disgusting motel.

Where did I put the address? Ah. Here it is, on the back of a Chili’s receipt. I board the Palo Alto bus and ask the bus driver to let me know which stop I should get off at for the two hundred block of Coleridge Avenue. When we reach the next stop, he turns and waves. Wow. It’s way closer to the school than I expected – probably should have checked how far away it was before I paid the bus fare. This could work out great. I could walk to class, save on gas and parking. I like it already.

I step off the bus and squint at the house numbers to figure out which direction to walk. Mental note: a blazer works for spring in Canada. Here, I’m suffocatingly overdressed. The street is cute. Tree-lined. Wide sidewalks. Nice family homes. Tons of joggers—California types, but whatever, at least it seems safe. And the fuchsia-colored flowers on the hedges smell amazing. The house that matches the address Stuart gave me is bigger than I expected. And despite the traditional Spanish style, it’s more modern than I imagined for a student rental.

I walk up the brick path and knock on the door. Nobody answers, so I knock again, louder. There isn’t a doorbell. In fact, I look around, duh, it’s not even the front door. It’s a side door to the garage. Smooth, Della. Hopefully a security camera didn’t catch that air-head move. Before I enter the courtyard that leads to the actual front door, which is unmistakable since it’s much grander and made from carved wood, I glance over my shoulder to check if any of the neighbors saw my dorky mistake. The gardener across the street might have, but he’s pretending he didn’t.

After I knock, rock music inside the house stops, and a few seconds later the door opens. Standing in the doorway, bathed in the glow of the California sun, is a shirtless, perfectly sculpted, slightly sweaty, long-haired, brown-eyed, dark-skinned, gorgeous specimen of a man.

He wipes a towel over his face and then extends his arm to offer to shake my hand. “Della?”

I blink repeatedly, stunned by the testosterone overload. Eventually, I raise my hand and clasp his. It’s huge.

“I’m Easton.”

“Hi,” I eventually whisper, then clear my throat to regain composure. “Nice to meet you. Is Everley here? She was going to meet me, so I could get a key.”

“I’m Everley.”

“Oh.” Didn’t he say Easton? More importantly—“You’re a—” I scan his physique again. “Guy.”

“Yes ma’am.” He chuckles and steps back into the foyer to open the door wider and invite me into the house. “Your cousin didn’t mention that?”

“Uh.” I step onto the terra cotta tiles hesitantly and glance sideways at him. There is no mistaking he’s male, but his raven black hair falls to the middle of his back and is shinier than the hair of any female I’ve ever met. He is strikingly beautiful but definitely a guy. “Stuart said you modeled, and Everley sounds, um—” I stop myself before actually telling him his name is feminine. Based on his amused grin he already knows why I assumed he was female. “Is it Easton or Everley?”

“Everley was my mom’s maiden name. I only use it for modeling. Easton Lewis is what everyone here knows me as.”

“Oh.” He’s pretty enough to be an Everley, but Easton suits him better; homegrown and wholesome but also unique. And really cute. “Uh.” I clear my throat to give myself a second to refocus. “The other roommates are female, right?”

His smile widens, but then he turns without answering and walks down the hall towards the back of the house. I follow, scanning the rest of the downstairs on my way to the kitchen. He pours two glasses of a green concoction from the blender. “Smoothie?”

I step up to the island and take the glass from him. “What’s in it?”

“Kale. Papaya. Coconut milk. A scoop of peanut butter.”

I sip at first but then tip it back. It’s delicious. And if it’s the reason his skin is that flawless, I’m completely willing to drink it, three meals a day. “So, you didn’t answer the question. Is Taylor male or female?”

“Male.”

“Bailey’s a girl, though, right?” Please. Please be female.

Easton laughs and washes out the blender. “Bailey’s sensitive deep down, but he won’t ever show it to you. He’s cowboy to the core. And nobody calls them by their real names. Taylor’s nickname is Chuck. And Bailey goes by BJ because his last name is Jackson.” Easton’s thick lashes raise, and he shoots me a look that makes me gulp down the smoothie. “Your cousin didn’t tell you he was sending you to live in a house with three rodeo cowboys?”

I shake my head slowly side-to-side and place the glass on the tile counter. “Nope. He left that part out. I’m sorry there has been a miscommunication, but this isn’t going to work out.” I glance at his etched muscles one more time.

“You don’t have to worry about the boys. They’ll treat you like a little sister.”

“Thanks, but I can’t live with three men. My parents are very old fashioned.” And I am very not the kind of girl who could live with three guys. I mean, I assume I’m not. I’ve never lived with anyone other than my family.

He stares at me quietly as he comes up with a counter point. “Your parents don’t need to know. Don’t tell them.”

“Oh, I can’t do that. I try not to make a habit of lying. Well, except there was this one time with a friend, but it was to spare her feelings. I grappled with myself over the ethics, but I think omitting the truth was the right decision in her case. Not that you probably care about that. Sorry. I get sidetracked sometimes.”

With his arms crossed he rests his butt against the edge of the countertop. “Maybe you could omit the truth with your parents. I’m desperate. We really need the extra person to cover the rent by this Friday or we’re all out on the street. Is there anything I can say to convince you to stay?”

Hmm. With my feet still anchored in place I take a look around. The backyard has a pool. The appliances are stainless steel, gas stove. Everything is spotlessly clean. It’s walking distance to the school. The rent is affordable. Easton is a piece of moving art. But three rowdy cowboys. No. “I don’t think it’s a good idea. I’m on a scholarship and can’t afford to let my grades slip. If you guys are partying all the time like a frat house I won’t get any studying done.”

“They don’t party here. They might stumble in at four in the morning, but you’ll mostly have the place to yourself. We travel for rodeos almost every weekend.”

I rub my hand over my face, torn. My dad really would flip if he found out I was the only female in the house. Mind you he’s already practically disowned me for leaving in the first place. If I don’t move in here I’ll have to stay at the motel. And I’ll have to do a house search to find a better place. Not that a better place in this price range probably even exists. This is exactly why Stuart left out the minor detail of them being male. He knew I’d turn it down flat if I knew. They’re just roommates, does it matter what gender they are? I know what my dad would think. I’m not sure what I think. Shoot. What to do. What to do.

Easton finishes his drink and says, “I need to hop in the shower. Why don’t you hang out and look around? The room you’d be in is the first on the left at the top of the stairs. You’d have your own private en suite bathroom. The boys and I share the other upstairs bathroom. Laundry is in the garage. A maid service comes in once a week. We take turns grocery shopping.”

I nod, letting it all sink in. It sounds perfect. He knows it does. His mouth makes a cute half-smile before he leaves the kitchen and heads upstairs. The shower turns on, so I wander around and peek out the patio door. Admittedly it would be relaxing to take study breaks out by the pool. The lush backyard is obviously maintained by a gardener. And there’s a gazebo! Dining el fresco was something I was definitely looking forward to when I decided to move from Canada to California.

Despite how clean everything is, there is no doubt three guys live here. Six pairs of athletic shoes and a collection of cowboy boots are lined up by the back door. The barbecue is enormous, as is the stacked wall of empty beer cans next to the recycling bins. And they have a full universal gym, boxing bag, and huge free weights set up on the patio next to the hot tub. I wonder if they’re all as fit as Easton. Probably. That would definitely be a distraction.

After checking out the laundry room in the garage, I tread quietly upstairs. Why does it feel like I’m sneaking around? Maybe because I keep imagining Easton standing naked in the shower. This is why my dad wouldn’t approve. He shouldn’t approve. I’m going to completely fail all my classes if I live here.

Oh my. I swing the door to my room wider. It’s ideal. I should leave before I fall in love with it. Too late. Why? Why are you so perfect? Walk-in closet. Queen-size bed that looks brand new. A solid wood dresser and matching desk. A huge window with a window seat and sunlight filtering through the leaves. Wooden California shutter blinds. Crown moldings. My own gigantic bathroom with a soaker-tub and separate shower. I have to leave.

As I step into the upstairs hall, Easton emerges from his room directly across from me. His hair is wet and tied in a bun at the back of his head. He looks just as good in jeans and a white T-shirt as he did in only athletic shorts. He smells amazing, like Hawaii. I absolutely need to leave.

“What’s the verdict?” he asks as I make my way down the stairs in front of him, trying not to trip.

Once we’re safely back in the foyer I turn and answer, “Uh, it’s really great, but like I said, it’s not going to work. Three men and me.”

He nods, looking kind of disappointed as he reaches for a set of keys in a glass bowl on the hallway table. “That’s too bad, but I understand. You have to do what’s best for you.” He opens the door for me and follows me out, then locks the door. “Do you want me to walk you back to school?”

“Um, yeah, okay. That would be nice. Thank you.” My skin is tingling. What is that about? Apparently, the idea of walking with him makes me giddy like a fourteen-year-old. Get a grip, Della. He’s just a dumb cowboy who happens to have stunning looks. We walk in silence for a while, which feels awkward, so I ask, “What are you studying?”

“I’m working on my MBA.”

Oh boy. He’s not dumb. My legs feel weird. Maybe I should take the bus.

“How about you, Della? What are you studying?”

Wow. The sound of my name coming out of his mouth is like melted chocolate flowing over ice cream. I’m already distracted, and I haven’t even gone to one class yet. Guys like him are definitely experienced in the woman department. I wonder what he thinks about girls like me, AKA girls who went to an all-girls’ private school and haven’t had a lot of boyfriends. Or any, to be more specific. It’s not like I’ve never had offers. Guys have asked me out, but when I was younger I refused all invitations to date because my father forbid it until I was sixteen. By then I was so terrified at the thought of getting pregnant or contracting an STD and having to tell my dad, that I basically avoided anyone who showed an interest. Once I was older and more open to the idea of a relationship, I just never met anyone I was that into. Definitely never met anyone even remotely as intriguing as Easton.

These are not great shoes for walking. It’s really hot in Palo Alto. What was the question again? Oh yeah. “Studying post-grad. To do the engineering. I mean being an engineer. Environmental systems. Spring term entry. That’s what I’m learning for or doing. I’m going to be that.” Oh, my goodness, be quiet, Della. Abort. Abort the conversation. Change the subject. “You have very nice skin.”

His eyebrows angle comically as we cross the street. “Thank you. It runs in my family.”

Really? Gah. Complimenting him on his skin. How is that any less awkward? Ask him something normal. “Where are you from?”

“Here in California.” He stops on the curb to wait for a light—fortunately—since I’m completely oblivious right now and would have definitely stepped out into on-coming traffic. “Mojave,” he adds.

“Mojave? Like the desert?”

“Like the people.”

“Ah.” When the light changes, we cross and then cut through a small park. “So, you’re a bull riding, Mojave Native American, super model, studying for his MBA.”

“Bareback bronc rider, actually. And I haven’t modeled in ages. The rest is true, though. And I’m also a rancher.”

“Wow.” I follow him along a path that shortcuts through another neighborhood. “You’re very unusual.”

He glances at me with an expression that’s impossible to decipher. Hopefully he didn’t take it the wrong way. Of course, he did. Who wouldn’t?

“In a good way,” I blurt out. “Unusual. Not the bad unusual. I didn’t mean weird. Diverse. The opposite of everyday run of the mill. Interesting. Not dull like me.” I’m an idiot. One second, I’m drooling over him, the next I’m putting my foot in my mouth. Just stop talking, Della. Maybe if you’re lucky you’ll never run into him again.

He slides his index finger over his eyebrow in an uncomfortable gesture. “The guys don’t know I used to model. Maybe we could keep that between you and me.”

“Sure.” Ugh. Now that I know it’s a secret I have an impulse to whisper it to the first person I see.

We walk in silence the rest of the way to campus, then he stops in front of a building. He stares at me for a second before he says, “You seem unusual too.”

As I’m wondering if he means the good kind of unusual or the bad, he hands me a key.

“The guys and I are leaving on a road trip tonight. We’ll be gone two days for a training clinic. Stuart gave me your number. I’ll message you mine. Think about renting the room. If you decide yes, then just move in and make yourself at home. If you decide no, drop the key in the mail slot. Cool?”

I nod. Yeah, cool, not really. Wait. What? I should just give the key back now. My hand isn’t moving. Why can’t I speak? He smiles and turns to bound up the stone stairs. He moves like an Olympian. Everyone in the vicinity watches as he waves back at me and then disappears through the front doors. A few of the females size me up, apparently because I was seen talking to the Mojave god. He must have Stanford celebrity status. Obviously he would. I mean look at him. And listen to him. And bask in his presence.

Okay, I’m still standing in the middle of the sidewalk with my hand out and a key on my upturned palm. Move, Della. Carry on. At least pretend to be a normal human being. In a less than convincing attempt to appear cool, I slide the key in my pocket and pull out my class schedule to figure out where I’m supposed to be. What time is it?

Chapter 2
Easton

Chuck and BJ are already seated at the back of the lecture hall when I sneak in. Professor Cavendish isn’t cool with students being late and, unfortunately, she just made eye contact with me. I wave apologetically and shoot her a sheepish smile. She’s strict. It might not work. I pause halfway to my seat, waiting to see if she’s going to kick me out or let me stay. Her left eyebrow raises in a cautionary way, but then she carries on with the lecture without giving me the boot.

“Impressive,” BJ says around the toothpick that is perpetually propped at the corner of his mouth.

Chuck nods to agree with the impressiveness and pops an ice pack to apply to his injured shoulder. “Future generations will gather at the foot of your bronze statue as they recall the legend of Havie the Mojave: The only person in the history of the school to get away with being late to Cavendish’s class.”

Chuck is quintessentially redneck—mullet and lame-assed hunting tattoos to prove it. BJ’s more sophisticated, and he’s black, so the other cowboys call us the Village People when we show up on the circuit together. I don’t really care what they call us as long as we’re taking home the money. And we usually do.

BJ waits until Cavendish turns around before he asks, “How’d it go with the new roomie? What’s she like?”

I shrug, purposely evasive. I don’t want him getting any bright ideas about dating or sleeping with her. “She seemed all right, but she’s undecided. She’ll let us know.”

“Come on, Havie.” BJ lowers his voice to a whisper after Cavendish shoots us a glare, “We need the money by Friday. If she’s not in, we have to ask someone we know.”

I shake my head. “No way. The last two guys were slobs, and I’m not letting a woman either of you guys have slept with or want to sleep with rent the room. You’ll piss her off. She’ll move out. And we’ll be right back in this same position in a month. Or worse, you’ll end up some buckle bunny’s baby daddy and need to come up with child support too.”

“Does that mean the chick you’ve picked is someone none of us would want to sleep with?” Chuck asks.

BJ’s face freezes in a brace-for-bad-news grimace. “Is she hideous?”

“It doesn’t matter what she looks like. All you should care about is whether she can pay the rent. And she’s skittish about living with three cowboys, so don’t scare her off if she does decide to move in.”

“Gentlemen,” Cavendish raises her voice to reach the back of the room loud and clear. “Since you’re going to be missing my next lecture for your little bronc riding adventures may I suggest that you listen during today’s lecture?”

“Yes, ma’am,” we all say in unison.

After an extended silence to drive home her point, she returns to lecturing and writing on the whiteboard.

BJ leans over and covers his mouth with his hand. “What color’s her hair?”

“Brown,” I say under my breath.

“Good brown or the ugly kind?”

“Shut up. Assuming that she’s straight, you’re not sleeping with her.”

“You can’t either then.”

Chuck leans in. “Can I?”

“No,” we both snap at him.

The woman sitting in front of me turns and shushes us.

BJ listens to Cavendish for a while, but the lecture is boring, so he swings his head over closer to me. “Does she have a nice body?”

“I have no idea. She was wearing dress pants and a blazer.”

“Like a professor?”

“More like a Catholic schoolgirl. You won’t like her. She’s too conservative for you.”

“Black? White? Asian? Latina? Or a Mojave princess?”

“She’s white. Like fresh snow. Now, shut it before you get us kicked out.”

Both BJ and Chuck swivel in their seats, staring at me with amused expressions.

“What?” I mumble.

“Why did you just describe her in a poetic way?”

I shake my head, annoyed. “It wasn’t poetic. It was descriptive. In a factual way. She literally has the palest skin I’ve ever seen. And for all we know she wouldn’t be interested in any of us anyway.”

They both sink back into their seats, grinning. Like they know something I don’t know.

After class, the guys and I walk to the deli for lunch. The freshman working the counter likes Chuck, so she gives us fifty percent off our sandwiches, which is cheaper than making them ourselves at home. I’m tired of the same thing every day, but money is going to be tight until we hit some rodeos. A half-priced turkey on rye is better than nothing.

We sit at a table by the window and BJ says, “Since we’ve never had a female roommate before, let’s make a rule. What’s her name again?”

“Della. But she hasn’t agreed yet.” I bite into my sandwich.

BJ pauses to give a woman walking by the eye, then continues, “Okay, if any of us sleeps with Della we owe the other two five-hundred bucks each.”

Chuck laughs. “I don’t even have a hundred bucks. I can’t come up with a thousand bucks.”

“Then don’t sleep with her, dummy.” BJ extends his hand towards me. “Are you in, Havie?”

He’s got a scheming look in his eyes. Probably because he thinks the snowy skin comment means I have a thing for her. I don’t. I barely know her. “Yeah, I’m in.” I shake his hand. “All I want from her is her rent money.”

Chuck looks confused. “Have we determined whether she’s good looking or not?”

“It doesn’t matter. Either you keep your hands off her or you owe us a grand.”

Chuck squints into the sun as his brain wheels tick. You’d think he’d been kicked in the head by one too many broncs, but he’s naturally like that. Book smart and life dumb. It’s actually painful to watch him figure things out. “What qualifies as sleeping with her? Just so I’m clear on the parameters.”

BJ checks with me, “Kissing? Heavy petting? Penetration? What should the line be?”

I shake my head to end the stupid conversation. “No touching. Period.”

Chuck gestures in protest. “No way, man. We need to be able to shake her hand or give her a hug if she’s crying or something. Penetration is the line.”

“Fine,” BJ says. “If any part of your body enters any part of her body you have to pay up.”

“What if she initiates the sexual contact?” Chuck asks.

“Still counts,” BJ says as he gets up to order a milkshake at the counter.

Chuck leans his elbows on the table, processing the situation. “What if she decides not to room with us? Is she still off-limits then?”

I don’t answer because Della just walked in. She grabs a tray and loads it with a carton of milk and a salad. Her hair is the good kind of brown—long, thick and wavy. It’s held back with a thin navy ribbon headband and she has dark-rimmed glasses on now, so she looks even more like a library monitor. Despite the modest outfit it’s obvious she’s fit. Probably a runner or tennis player. BJ has already spotted her and is checking out her ass. Chuck is about to notice her, too. He’s not into good girls, but her big brown doe eyes, heart-shaped face, and the way she smells, like a mixture of vanilla and peppermint, will mesmerize him into giving it his best shot. One of them is going to spook her. Guaranteed.

Della steps up to the cashier where BJ is waiting for his milkshake. He says something to her that makes her cheeks flush. She responds quietly without looking directly at him and passes the cashier a twenty. When BJ points over at our table, Della turns and our eyes meet. I smile. Not in the ‘trying to wheel her’ way, but in the ‘her looking at me actually made me smile’ way. Uh oh. Maybe I do have a thing for her already. This is potentially not good.

She attempts to wave at me and tips her tray in the process. The salad bowl flies through the air and lettuce floats to the floor. The milk carton hits the ground hard and explodes, which makes her wince as the spray douses her and BJ in white droplets. “Shoot. I’m sorry,” she says to him as she leans across the counter to grab serviettes. “It soaked your boots. I’m sorry. Let me wipe them off for you.” She crouches down to clean up the milk.

“Don’t worry about it, darlin’. Boots are made for getting dirty,” BJ says as he makes eye contact with me. He points down at her and mouths, “Is this the new roomie?”

I don’t want to answer because I don’t know what he’s going to do with that information. He can obviously tell from my non-reaction that she is, which makes him grin in a way that is only going to mean trouble. He helps her pick up the salad remnants and orders another one for her. He pays for it with what is likely his last ten bucks and then escorts her over to our table.

I stand to slide over a chair from the table next to us and offer her mine. “Della, that’s BJ,” I say. “This is Chuck.” I shoot them both glares, intended to warn them to be on their best behavior, which they both ignore.

“Ah, Della,” Chuck says. “We’ve heard all about you. Welcome to Stanford. Have a seat.”

She sits cautiously and places the tray with the fresh salad and milk on the table. “Hi. Nice to meet you both.” She glances at me and presses her lips together as if she’s forcing herself not to say more.

“If you need help with anything, I’m happy to show you around,” BJ offers before he raises his eyebrows at me.

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

With all of us watching, she takes a sip of milk. She doesn’t touch the salad, though, as if she’s uncomfortable eating in front of people. Maybe I should get the key back from her. If I don’t, I’ll be leading a lamb to the wolves.

BJ leans back in his chair, sipping his milkshake, sizing her up, and literally licking his chops. “You have an interesting accent, Della. Where you from?”

“Vancouver, but I was born in Russia. We moved to Canada when I was eight. Then I moved to California yesterday, so here I am. How about you guys? I know Easton is from here. Where are you both from?”

“Chuckie’s from Oregon. I’m a Texan born and raised.” BJ watches as she finally picks up her fork and eats a small bite of lettuce.

“Do you prefer to be called Bailey and Taylor or BJ and Chuck?” she asks.

“Doesn’t matter to me,” BJ says. “Rodeo nickname. Real name. I answer to both.”

She nods and glances at Chuck, waiting for him to answer.

With a straight face he says, “You can call me Big Poppa.”

Her eyebrows angle together as she attempts to read him. I’m pretty sure he’s joking, but honestly, it’s not always easy to tell with Chuck. Either way, I shake my head to let her know that she shouldn’t take him seriously.

“Are you going to eat this pickle?” He asks me after he’s already taken it off my plate and bitten into it. “You know anything about Rodeo, Della?”

Her head swivels side to side. “No. Only that there are bulls and horses. And animal rights activists who claim it’s cruel.” She opens the package of salad dressing and it squirts onto the table. “Shoot,” she mutters under her breath as she wipes it up.

BJ sits forward, defensive. “You think the animals are mistreated?”

“Oh. No. I don’t know.” Her cheeks flush from his confrontational tone. “I don’t know anything about it. I’ve never even been to a rodeo.” She clenches her eyes shut for a second as if she’s trying to reset the conversation, then she glances at Chuck’s wrapped shoulder and BJ’s swollen eye. “It does appear to be cruel to cowboys, though.”

I laugh. Chuck nods to agree and BJ relaxes back in his seat.

I like her. I don’t know why. She’s not the type I normally go for—awkward, eyes that are so innocent it makes me worry about her safety in the world, and really conservative. We probably have nothing in common. Then again, dating woman I have a lot in common with hasn’t really worked out for me so far.

BJ pokes Della’s arm to tease her. “Is shoot the worst cuss word you’ve ever said?”

She frowns and glances at me before she answers him. “I guess. Why?”

“Do you drink?”

“Like alcohol?” She immediately cringes and points at the milk carton as if she can’t believe she didn’t realize that was implied. “Obviously that’s what you meant. Everyone drinks. Liquids. Milk. Water. I’ve had a glass of champagne. Once.”

Chuck and BJ both laugh at her lack of experience. This is bad. She’s a lamb. A cute, defenseless little lamb. They’re going to eat her alive. And we definitely have nothing in common.

“Why’d you choose engineering?” I ask to prevent them from grilling her on anything that might embarrass her.

She pauses mid-bite and retracts the fork. “Um, honestly?”

I nod.

“Because my dad thinks women aren’t smart enough to be engineers. I’m here to prove him wrong.”

“Good on ya,” Chuck says and gives her a fist bump.

“Hell yeah,” BJ adds.

I nod again. Okay. I definitely have a thing for her. She can’t live with us. I don’t have an extra thousand dollars to give the guys.

Chapter 3
Della

Ew. What was that? Something just crawled across my face. I reach over and flip the lamp on. It’s a cockroach. On my pillow. Gah! Disgusting. Get it off. No, no. They’re everywhere. I hop up to stand on the mattress as a wave of giant shells scurry, like an insect army, across the floor to the bathroom and closet where it’s dark.

And I’m done sleeping. Maybe forever.

Yuck. The hotel manager moved me to this room after I mentioned that last night’s room didn’t have hot water. Cold water is better than bugs. Why am I so itchy? I rub my palms over my arms vigorously. Do cockroaches bite? Do they carry disease? I’m going to catch the plague. Maybe I should call my dad and ask him what to do. No. Don’t be a baby. Figure it out. Think. Well, one thing I know for sure, I can’t stay at this disgusting motel. What time is it? Four in the morning. I don’t care. I would rather be a homeless person.

I jump off the bed to zip up my suitcases and don’t even bother to change out of my pajama shorts or brush my teeth, which would horrify my mother. She doesn’t even come downstairs for breakfast until she is fully showered and dressed for the day. I don’t care right now. Well, maybe a little. It only takes a second to throw a sweatshirt over my tank-top before I leave.

My car is parked right in front of the door, so I toss my luggage into the trunk and pop the hood. I don’t know anything about car engines. My dad always serviced it for me. But I’m going to be an engineer. I should be able to figure out why it wouldn’t start yesterday. The engine wouldn’t turn over at all, so that must be the battery, right? It might be a little tricky to get a new battery at four o’clock in the morning, if that’s even what the problem is.

I could sleep in the car. Slightly uncomfortable, but infestation-free. Or, maybe that’s not a good idea. The woman on the sidewalk who looks like a prostitute—not judging—is talking to a guy who could be a drug dealer—not judging. I sort of am judging. My guess is that this is not the safest place in the world for sleeping in a disabled vehicle.

I still have the key to the Palo Alto house. Easton said they’d be out of town for two days. I could maybe stay there and find a place before they get back. The guys were nice enough. Polite. Fun. All attractive, which is unrelated to this train of thought, yet notable. And they’re easy going. They wouldn’t care if I crashed there. But it sort of feels like taking advantage of them.

There really are no other vacancies near the school—at least not any that would be better than the motel. A girl in my last class said there is a room for rent in the house she lives at. I wrote her number on the back of the deli receipt. It’s actually cheaper than the Palo Alto place, but smaller, too. And a forty-minute bus ride to the school. Plus, it’s her and two guys. So, not really that much more suitable. And it’s a little early to call her up.

I pace as I think and become increasingly annoyed with my dad. My accommodation situation wouldn’t even be an issue if he hadn’t blocked the money in my savings account when he found out I was applying to Stanford. His name is on the account, but it’s my money from my last ten birthdays, my job as a department store cashier, and my inheritance from my grandfather. It’s not a lot of money but will cover my living expenses for a few years. So frustrating. And unfair. In fact, my sister never even had to use her savings because Dad paid for her entire nursing education. He also bought her a condo because she went to the school he wanted her to go to. Whatever. It’s fine if he doesn’t want to pay out of his pocket for me to take something he doesn’t approve of, but the money in my savings account is mine. And, unfortunately, the scholarship funds haven’t been deposited into my personal account yet. Sorting out the scholarship and banking issues will probably take several more one-hour line-ups. And possibly a lawyer to deal with my dad. I’m not looking forward to any of it.

I’m itchy.

The stores aren’t open across the street. Hopefully the restaurant on the other side of the parking lot opens at five. A sketchy looking guy sitting at the bus stop is staring at me. Maybe I should go into the office.

The fifty-something clerk is asleep behind the counter, so I sit on a chair next to the tourism pamphlets. They’re so old. It looks like they haven’t been restocked since the nineties. The coffee is burnt to the bottom of the pot, the plastic plants are covered in a layer of dust, and the ceiling has creepy holes in it, like a camera is hidden in it, or a creature. I’m for sure going to have nightmares about this place at some point.

The clerk snores himself awake and blinks groggily at me. “Hey there. I didn’t hear you come in. You need something?”

“Do you have jumper cables?”

“Yeah.”

“Really?” I shoot up out of the chair. I was half-joking when I said it and honestly didn’t think he would. “That’s fantastic.”

“Are you checking out?”

“Yes. Please.” I slide the key across the counter. He already made me pre-pay for the night so it’s just a matter of signing a piece of paper and I’m free to go.

“I’ll get my truck and meet you around front.”

Yay.

It feels like I’m breaking and entering into the Palo Alto house. And, apparently, I am. Easton didn’t mention anything about an alarm, but I hear beeping. Uh, oh. How long do they give you? Thirty, sixty seconds? I don’t even know where the panel is. Shoot. I’m going to end up in jail, and none of us have any money to bail me out. Ending up a convict will absolutely support my dad’s argument that moving here was a bad idea.

Okay, stop panicking. Where’s the panel? It sounds like it’s in the hall that leads to the garage. I sprint and quickly open the cover. 1234, nope. 0000, nope. 9999, nope. How many chances do they give you to screw up? At least there’s no rent in jail. Think, Della. What would three cowboys choose as their alarm code? Boots? Horse? Bronc? Spurs? Or, how about 2057. The house address? Nope. How about the address backwards?

Ha. Bingo. It’s disarmed. Woohoo. I’m a genius. Running man. Sprinkler. Booty bounce. Whoa, slip and hit my knee on the tile. Ouch. Okay, dancing is not my strong suit, not even celebratory jigs. I’m going to stop that now.

The light flicks on. “Hey.”

Bah! Sweet Mother of Pearl. I gasp, clutching my chest to prevent my heart from leaping out of it. Easton fills the width of the hallway. When I notice the baseball bat on his shoulder I instinctually step back.

He chuckles and places the bat on the floor, leaning it against the wall. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you. I thought you were an intruder.”

The sight of him causes adrenaline to gush through my veins. Not the bad kind from the thought of being mistaken for a burglar and attacked by a massive, muscular man with a bat. The good kind from only the thought of the massive, muscular man part. A man who happens to be smiling as if he’s glad I’m the intruder.

“I didn’t realize you’d be moving in so late.” He smiles and glances over his shoulder at the clock on the wall in the kitchen. “Or early.”

“I, uh, hi. Sorry. I would have called if it weren’t so late slash early. Long story. I should have called, but I thought you were supposed to be out of town.”

“I didn’t go. My dad’s not feeling that well after his last chemotherapy treatment, so I’m driving out there today to visit him.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.” I rub my knee where it’s already starting to grow a lump and wonder if he witnessed me fall. “Do you think it’s serious? Your dad?”

He shrugs and leans against the wall with his arms crossed. “Probably. He’s a tough son-of-a-bitch, so if he’s showing pain it’s not a good sign.” He glances at me and his eyes search my face as if he’s trying to read my expression. “Sorry for cursing.”

“Oh, no. Don’t apologize.” I wave my hands in an attempt to ease his unnecessary repentance. “You don’t have to change who you are for me. I’m not a total prude.” Except that I kind of am. Or, always have been. I guess I don’t have to be.

He glances at the alarm panel. “You cracked the code?”

“Yeah. Eventually.” I can’t help but grin at my own cleverness.

“There you go. Women are smart enough to be engineers.” He turns and walks down the hall towards the kitchen. “Since we’re both up, you want some breakfast? I can make us an omelet.”

Hmm. Yeah, breakfast with Easton would be good. But I was only planning on crashing here and then leaving. Sneak in a shower, maybe a dip in the pool. Make one of those smoothies. And then gone. That was the plan. Easton being here is definitely not part of the plan. My reaction to Easton calling me smart is also unexpected. He has some sort of magic effect on me. Everyone probably feels that way around him. That’s why Stuart photographs him. He’s got that something special. It. He’s got it. Whatever it is. I like it. Which is why I am going to join him for breakfast in this very big, very empty house. Just the two of us. Alone. By ourselves.

Oh, grow up, Della. It’s eggs with a guy, not sex.

“So, you decided to move in,” he says as he clicks the gas element on. “I didn’t realize it would be at four-thirty in the morning.” He laughs. “Sorry I forgot to tell you the alarm code.” His hair is woven into one long braid that trails down his spine. He’s not wearing a shirt again, so every detail of his chiseled back is on display. Cooking half-nude. I guess he’s not particularly concerned about splatter burns. He probably doesn’t feel them. Like a superhero, impermeable to the injuries of mere mortals. He turns to face me with the spatula poised in the air, as if he’s waiting for something. Did I miss the question?

“Um, sorry, what did you say?”

“What made you decide to shack up with three men? I know it’s not because you found Chuck and BJ irresistibly charming.” He points at the fridge. “Cheese or no cheese in your omelet?”

“Cheese is good. I like cheese.”

He smiles and leans into the fridge to take out all the ingredients. Cheese is good. I like cheese. He must think I’m odd. I am odd. And how am I supposed to tell him that I didn’t actually decide to move in, I was just going to be a squatter for the night? He looks over at me again because, yeah that’s right, I haven’t answered the question yet. It’s so hot in here. I pull off my sweatshirt and say, “Cockroaches.”

His eyebrows angle together as he attempts to decipher my cryptic conversation skills.

“Cockroaches made my decision for me.”

He places a bowl on the counter and stares at me with his mouth slightly agape. All of me. Not my face. My body. What’s he looking at? Okay, I know I’m in my pajamas, and my hair’s a mess, and my breath probably smells horrid, but I don’t think it warrants actual shock on his part.

“What happened to your skin?”

I glance down at my arms. They’re completely covered in red marks, like spider bites but all over in tracks. And they run along my chest. And, oh my goodness, all down my legs. What is that? I’m scarlet. It’s a cockroach disease. That’s why I’m so itchy. Even itchier now that I’ve noticed. My scalp is itchy now. I stand and jig around because it feels like insects are crawling all over me. “What is it?”

“It looks like bed bugs got you.”

“Bed bugs? Are they still on me?”

He chuckles. “Probably not, but they might be on your luggage and in your clothes.”

Yuck. Disgusting. Thank goodness I left my stuff in the trunk of my car and didn’t track them in here. “Ugh. That motel was wretched. I probably have lice and tics and scabies, too. I should go.”

“You don’t have to go. Just have a shower. I’ll make a Mojave remedy for you. It will take away the itch. You can wear one of my T-shirts and we’ll put all your other clothes in the washing machine. The dryer should kill any that might have hitched a ride.”

He’s sweet. And calm. I feel better already. “I’m sorry. I know you didn’t plan to rent to a dirty vagrant with communicable diseases.”

“Chuck has worse.”

My eyes widen and my expression makes Easton laugh.

“I’m kidding. I think.” He laughs even harder and starts cracking the eggs, completely unfazed by my grossness.

I slink out of the kitchen and run up to the bathroom in my room. Well, not my room. The room that’s for rent. The room that I’m currently contaminating, so probably obligated to rent even if I don’t live in it. Oh, my gosh. Maybe my dad was right. Coming to Stanford was a bad idea and this is the universe’s way of sending me the message. Hey, Della, go home. Who do you think you are? Quit.

Only, I don’t want to quit. It’s not that bad. Sure, it’s only been two days and everything has pretty much gone wrong. It could be worse, though. In the grand scheme of things people deal with much worse hardships than broken down cars and unsanitary living conditions. But what if this is only the beginning and it does get worse? I can always drop out and go home. Think positive, Della. It could also get better.

I undress and step into the shower. The water pressure is amazing. Perfect for rinsing conditioner out. The guys probably don’t fully appreciate this minor detail. Maybe Easton does. His hair is nicer than mine. I want to live here. And Easton is already making breakfast and a Mojave remedy. Plus, my clothes need washing. Hopefully dry-cleaning kills bed bugs too, otherwise I’m going to have to burn most of my wardrobe. Oh well, nobody dresses formally here anyways.

You know, come to think of it, my sister lived with Alex before they were married. My parents eventually got used to it—not until they actually got married. But still. Precedence has been set. Okay, I’m staying. Until things get worse.

Chapter 4
Easton

Visiting my dad at the ranch was rough. Partly for the same reasons it has always been rough between us, and partly because it’s hard to see him struggling. When he was diagnosed with cancer I started going home more often to help out, and I thought maybe spending more time together would change some things between us, but it hasn’t.

I’m sitting in my truck in the driveway of the Palo Alto house, trying to adjust back into my life as a student. Della’s Volkswagen Bug is parked on the street, so she’s probably home. I was hoping the guys would already be back. For some reason I’m hesitant to be here alone with her. Not some reason. I know the reason. It’s because I haven’t stopped thinking about her since I left yesterday morning. Her completely natural fresh-face, her klutziness, the innocent way her cheeks flush over everything, and the sexy way she looked wearing only my T-shirt while her clothes were in the wash. That damn near killed me.

Even my dad could tell there was something up with me. I denied it, but the fact that I kept talking about her probably didn’t help convince him. The attraction is not good for the roommate arrangement. Neither is being alone with her.

A hand slams against my driver’s side window followed by Chuck’s ugly mug. He laughs because he startled me. “What’s up, Havie?” Without waiting for a response, he carries on to the front door behind BJ. Glad to have them as a buffer, I get out of the truck and grab my bag from the back. I better figure out a way to keep my attraction to Della locked up, quick.

As I enter the kitchen Chuck breaks into a run and shouts, “Honey, we’re home.” He cannonballs past Della who is stretched out on a lawn chair in the backyard. BJ also jumps straight into the pool with his clothes on to cool off from their road trip. Della was reading a textbook but puts the book down and pulls on a long-sleeve beach cover-up over her head to hide her white bikini. She notices me over her shoulder and moves a towel self-consciously to hide her legs, which are still speckled from the bed bug bites.

“Hey,” I say and pull up a chair next to her, trying to play it cool. Unfortunately, being close to her has the reverse effect. I’ve definitely never felt this way before. I’m in so much trouble.

“Hi,” she says softly with a sideways glance and her trademark blush. “How’s your dad?”

I lean back and run my hands through my hair as I watch the guys horsing around in the pool. “He’s feeling better now. The chemotherapy takes a lot out of him, though, so I did some work around the ranch to let him rest until he got his strength back.”

“What type of cancer does he have?”

“Non-Hodgkin lymphoma.” I stare at my clasped hands for a while, then glance at her. “They caught it early, so hopefully it will turn out okay.”

“I’m sure it will. How about your mom? How’s she holding up?”

“Uh.” I hesitate because Chuck and BJ don’t even know anything about my mom. Not sure if it’s because they never asked, or I never told. I lower my voice so only Della can hear and say, “My mom was killed by a drunk driver when I was ten. It’s just my dad and me.”

Della’s lips press together sympathetically and the space between her eyebrows creases. Her eyes meet mine as if she’s searching for something. Or maybe she’s not searching. Maybe she already found it. “I can’t even imagine what losing your mom as a child must have been like for you, but if you ever feel like you need to talk, I’m happy to listen.”

Emotion rises in my throat from her offer. I don’t know why. I’m not an emotional guy. But there’s something about the way she said it. So genuine. “Thanks,” I eventually say, after taking a deep breath to steady my voice.

Chuck swims over and folds his arms on the edge of the pool, looking slyly back and forth between Della and me. He can tell we’re having a moment and it makes him smirk because he thinks he’s got five hundred bucks coming his way. I stand to send the message that he’s wrong.

“What do you guys feel like for dinner?” I ask to shift the intensity. “Your choices are pasta, rice, or oatmeal.”

“Actually, my scholarship money came in today,” Della says. “I was planning to do a grocery run and make you guys a proper dinner as a thank you. If you want me to.”

“Hell yeah,” Chuck says as he climbs out of the pool.

“Sounds good to me,” BJ adds, still floating on his back.

I nod. “Sure. We’re doing a Costco shop for all the big stuff after we get back from the rodeo this weekend, but there’s a market down the street. Do you want me to come with you? We can pick up some things for the next few days, too.”

Chuck and BJ exchange a raised eyebrow with each other.

Della nods and stands. “Okay. I just need to change. I’ll meet you out front.” She ducks by me and disappears into the house.

BJ throws a pool noodle at me. “What are you doing, idiot? She’s been here a day-and-a-half and you’re already on the verge of failing.”

“What? I can’t offer to go with her to the grocery store to show her what you guys like to eat?”

Chuck takes his boots off and dumps the water out. “Whatever’s going on between you two has nothing to do with things you eat at the grocery store. I’ll take my five hundred bucks in cash or check, whichever is more convenient for you.”

“I’m not breaking any rules. I’m just being helpful,” I say and turn to head inside.

“I want my winnings in cash!” BJ shouts as I walk away.

There are a lot of reasons why I shouldn’t pursue anything with Della – including every complication that goes along with living together if it works out, or worse, if it doesn’t work out – the money I’d owe them isn’t even on the top of the list. Unfortunately, none of the reasons hold much weight when we’re in close proximity.

She comes back downstairs dressed in a white blouse, white tennis shoes, and pink pants that are rolled at the ankle. Her dark hair is pulled into a ponytail and although she doesn’t seem to wear makeup, her lips are shiny as if she put on some sort of gloss. I try to ignore that, and as we leave the house, I remind myself of all the reasons it would be a bad idea to pursue her. I have canvas grocery bags in my truck, so I offer to drive, then open the passenger door for her. Walking around the back of the truck to the driver’s side, I mumble, “Come on, Havie. Stop acting like you can’t take your eyes off her. It’s a trip to Trader Joe’s, not a date.”

As I back out of the driveway, her gaze scans the interior of the truck, checking it out. I keep it clean, which she seems surprised by. “How far is the drive to your dad’s ranch?” she asks.

“Close to four hours. It’s near Three Rivers, California.”

“Is that where you grew up?”

I nod and turn left at the lights. “Yeah. It’s a nice area. I can take you there sometime.”

She smiles and runs her palms along her thighs as if she’s nervous or something. “I grew up in a village about four hours outside of Moscow. It’s not a nice area. I won’t take you there sometime. I mean, for your own sake. Not because I wouldn’t take you if you wanted to go. I’m just sure you wouldn’t like it there. That’s all. I would take you. It’s not sight-seeing worthy, though.”

“Sight-seeing worthy or not, growing up in Russia is interesting. Is your extended family still in the village?”

“My dad’s side of the family is. My mom’s side of the family is actually former Russian aristocracy, so they fled Russia a long time ago. Her parents weren’t thrilled about her marrying a poor country boy that she met at university.” Her eyes widen as she glances at me. “No offence. I have nothing against country boys. Not that I have a thing for them, either. Just nothing against them. Or poor people. Love is the most important thing. Never mind. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

I chuckle as she shifts uncomfortably in her seat. “Should we call you princess?”

She smiles, relieved that I wasn’t offended by the poor country boy diss. “No. If we were in the nineteenth century I would have been on par with a more fully dressed Kardashian at best. Nowadays I’m just a middle-class Russian-Canadian immigrant.” She winks. “You can address me as Lady Della if you like, though.”

Being a descendant of aristocrats explains a lot, maybe not her goofy humor. That might be more a country pauper thing. I’m still smiling as I pull into a parking spot. We both hop out and I ask, “Do you speak Russian?”

“Yes, my parents both speak it at home, especially when they’re mad at me.”

I grab a grocery cart and follow her into the store. As she heads to the produce section, I chuckle at the image of her parents shouting at her. “I can’t imagine anyone ever being mad at you.”

“Oh, trust me it happens.” Her nose wrinkles as if she’s not proud to admit it but is too honest to deny it. “You don’t know me well enough yet to know I can be very grumpy if I’m stressed. And I get PMS moody, not that you probably want to know that, but maybe you guys should know if you’re going to have a female roommate.” She pauses to choose avocados from the display and places them in the cart. “You said you’re an only child, so if you haven’t spent a lot of time around sisters or girlfriends. I mean, I’m sure you’ve had lots of girlfriends or have a girlfriend.” Her eyes dart sideways to check my expression before she distractedly pokes a row of papayas one at a time.

Was that her way of asking if I’m single?

Before I have a chance to say anything she starts talking again like a racehorse out of the gate. “You definitely probably have a girlfriend, or maybe you like men. I’m sorry, I don’t mean to assume or imply anything, or not imply anything.”

She’s unquestionably fishing for my status. And I could tell her. But that might unlock a whole load of awkwardness. For both of us.

“Sorry,” she says after she notices that my mood shifted into something more serious. “I’m just trying, somewhat unsuccessfully, to say that women, some women, me, I get irritable sometimes.” She picks a bundle of asparagus and a clamshell of cherry tomatoes. Then, in an oddly impressive way continues her animated gestures as she talks with her hands full. “Bottom line, living with me means you can anticipate some eye rolls and an occasional snappy tone of voice once a month. I apologize for that in advance. And if you ever get angry at me I’ll remind you of this conversation in an I-warned-you way, which will likely only aggravate you more.” She studies the firmness of a mango before making eye contact with me again. “And you’ll likely end up shouting at me in Russian.”

I smile and grab two lemons and two limes. “I’ll steer clear of you once a month. And I promise not to learn any Russian.”

“I have more flaws.” She pulls a grapefruit from the display and scrambles to catch the others before they roll down the slope. “I’m completely uncoordinated, as you might have already noticed. You’d be surprised how angry a person can get when, due to clumsiness, you break or ruin something they love. Just ask my sister about her former diamond earring that is now in the Greater Vancouver Regional District sewer system thanks to a mishap that involved a public toilet and a bee. You don’t need to know the details. I can be annoying when I’m in a chatty mood, which is almost always. Also, sometimes when I get nervous I jam my foot in my mouth and offend people by saying something inadvertently offensive or borderline stupid.” She glances at me almost as if she expects me to confirm that one.

I add a bag of apples to the cart. “Well, nobody’s perfect. And it’s entertaining for me when you do something embarrassing like your attempted touchdown dance that nearly blew out your ACL after figuring out the alarm code.”

Her face turns almost magenta and she clenches her eyes shut as if she’s attempting to erase that incident from either her memory or mine. She haphazardly tosses a head of lettuce, a bunch of carrots, and a bag of baby potatoes into the cart. Then, without saying anything, she speed-walks ahead and turns the corner into the cereal aisle.

Sexy and a goofball. Can’t say I’ve ever met anyone quite like her.

Chapter 5
Della

All three of the boys are seated at the dinner table, laughing at a joke Chuck cracked. I think it included some sort of obscure sexual innuendo, so I don’t really get why it’s funny, but I’m smiling because they enjoyed the grilled fish and asparagus dinner I made. The brownies were a hit, too. They were Easton’s choice of dessert because he doesn’t like pie. Who doesn’t like pie?

“Thanks, Della,” BJ says. “Everything was really great. We have a new contender for best cook in the house.” He smacks Easton’s shoulder to give him a hard time.

I shake my head to turn down the title. “I only have three go-to options, and one of them is spaghetti, so don’t get too excited.”

They all laugh.

Easton’s eyes meet mine for an extra beat before he takes the last bite of his brownie. Chuck jumps up from the table to clear the dishes. “Thanks for dinner, Della, but I gotta go. Janine is waiting for me. Date night. AKA Chuck gets lucky night.” He loads the dinner plates into the dishwasher and then leaves.

“Chuck has a girlfriend?” I turn to look at both Easton and BJ, whoever wants to answer.

“When it suits him,” BJ says as he gets up and clears the rest of the dessert dishes. “I have to jet, too. I’ve got a group project meeting on campus and I can’t afford to drop anymore marks. Don’t wait up.”

He leaves, and I spin my fork around on the table, thinking about what BJ said about Chuck and Janine.

“You okay?” Easton asks.

I nod, not really. “Does ‘when it suits him’ mean he cheats on his girlfriend?”

Easton’s expression makes it seem as if he wants to answer honestly but knows I won’t like it, which technically is confirmation that it’s true.

“Does his girlfriend know?”

“If she doesn’t know about at least half of it, she’s not that bright.” Easton stands and walks over to the kitchen to hand-wash the pots and pans. He sneaks another brownie straight out of the pan and pops it into his mouth.

“I don’t want to judge, but why would she tolerate that?”

He shrugs and places the pot upside down on the drying rack. “They’ve been dating for three years. And they’re probably going to get married. Maybe they both want to live the best of both worlds while they’re still young.”

Part of that does make sense—take risks and experience life to the fullest so you have no regrets when you get older and settle down. But the other part is really hard for me to accept. How could you be physically intimate with someone you don’t care about when it hurts the person you do care about? I have no experience to reference it against. Maybe I would feel differently if I were in their shoes. I ponder the ethics of it for a while, but then the fact that Easton’s hair is loose distracts me. When he moves it fans out like feathers. Wild and delicate at the same time. Like visual poetry. I pick up my brownie with my bare hand and bite into it as I watch him clean the counter. Both are delicious.

After the kitchen is spotless again, he sits back at the table and offers me some wine.

“No, thank you,” I say, referring to the wine. Then I study his face. He can obviously feel me doing it because he looks up, waiting. “Do you cheat on your girlfriend?”

His eyes remain locked on mine, and with the most intense expression I have ever witnessed in another person, he says, “I don’t currently have a girlfriend. And I don’t cheat on anything.”

Whoa. Oh my goodness. Why does it feel like a supernova just blasted through me? My heart is palpitating. I think he can tell. He’s looking at me so seriously. He can read my thoughts. Is that why the other guys left? Is it that obvious that I’m crushing on Easton? Do they not realize that leaving me alone with him is not actually doing me any favors? I’m sweating like a maniac. Maybe I should go for a walk. He’d probably offer to escort me. He definitely would, like a knight in shining armor.

“Homework,” I blurt out.

His eyebrows raise, amused at my weirdness again.

“I have reading. Tomorrow’s class. I’m going to my room. Reading in my room. For homework. Then sleeping.” I stand and the chair almost topples over behind me, but he stretches his arm out and catches it before it falls. Then he pulls it back so I can attempt a more graceful exit. “Goodnight.”

“Night.” He chuckles before taking a sip of wine.

Unfortunately, he’s probably watching me as I walk away. It’s incredibly difficult to command my legs to function properly when I know someone is possibly assessing each step. The hypervigilance makes me overthink an action which is ingrained in most people by approximately twelve months of age but doesn’t come particularly natural to me. Over-thinking is bad. Where do my hands normally go? Are they supposed to swing? They feel weird at my side.

Only I would forget how to walk.

I race up the stairs and close my bedroom door. Pull it together, Della. If you’re going to live here, you need to get a grip. After several recovering breaths, I sit at my desk and open the textbook, then stare at the page for almost a minute before I realize the book is upside down. It’s probably a good thing I didn’t go to high school with boys. I’d still be there.

My phone rings. It’s Stuart. “Hey, how’s it going at Everley’s?”

“Good. You didn’t mention she’s a guy named Easton, though.”

He chuckles. “Yeah, well, little miss virtuous wouldn’t have given it a shot if she knew that ahead of time. He’s great, though, right?”

“Yeah. He’s great.” So great. I stare in a dreamy way out the window, but since it’s dark outside, all I see is my own reflection. Oh, man, is that a chunk of rice in my hair? How did that get there? “How are you, Stu?”

“Good. The reason I’m calling is because your dad contacted me.”

“Ugh. So Annoying. I can’t believe he bothered you. Obviously, the fact that I’ve been dodging his calls wasn’t a clear enough message that I don’t want to talk to him right now.”

“He wants me to give him your address. I don’t really want to get mixed up in any family drama, so if you want him to have it, you should send it to him. If you don’t want him to have it, I’m going to tell him that.”

“Why does he want it anyway?”

“I don’t know. Maybe to forward your mail or show up at your doorstep and ground you.”

“Great.” I lean my elbows on my desk and rub the tension out of my forehead. “Did you tell him my roommates are men?”

“No. I didn’t tell him anything. But you’re probably going to have to call him.”

“I’ll call him so he knows I’m okay. Don’t give him the address. I’ll set up a post box he can send stuff to.”

“All right. How are you for money? Do you need anything?”

“No. The student loan came in today. But thank you.”

“Call your dad.”

“Okay.” I end the call with Stuart and dial my mom. She never answers her mobile phone because she can never find it. It’s the perfect excuse for me not to talk to them. I leave a message to let them know I’m all settled in and promise to send the address. That should earn me another week or two before Dad hounds Stuart again. I also text my sister. We weren’t really that close growing up because she’s five years older than me. She’s already married and has a kid now. But she supported me when I decided to go against Dad’s wishes and pursue engineering instead of a teaching degree. She always caved into the pressure and did everything he expected her to do, which is why she completely understands how hard it was for me to come to Stanford. It’s the one and only rebellious thing I’ve ever done, which is why I really don’t want to mess up and give him reason to gloat. The last thing my sister said before I started off on the road trip was that she admired me. It still makes me feel warm and fuzzy when I think about it. She doesn’t respond to the text. She must be busy with the baby, so I pick up my textbook.

Chapter two, paragraph one. Go.

Easton is still downstairs. It sounds like he’s doing a load of laundry. Maybe I should plan to do all my studying at the library. That might work if I don’t spend the entire time thinking about what he might be doing back at the house. I wonder if studying with him would be more or less distracting since my mind wouldn’t have to drift very far. Who am I kidding? I’m just trying to come up with a justifiable excuse to ask him to study with me. Nice try.

He’s coming upstairs. He went into his room.

Chapter two, paragraph one.

He crosses the hall to the bathroom, then the shower turns on.

Chapter two, paragraph two.

Shoot. Now I’m thinking about what he looks like with water cascading over his smooth, dark skin. Muscles. Long hair.

Chapter two, paragraph three.

Hmm. He made a sound, more like a groan, like he’s straining. Or like he hurt himself. Maybe he stubbed his toe. That’s something I would do. I did do it. This morning. But he must be okay. He just sighed in relief, like a huge stress was released. Ha. I wonder if he knows that when he stubs his toe it sounds like something sexy. Wait. I sit up straight, close my book, and stare at the wall that divides my room and their bathroom. Was it something sexy? Guys do that in the shower, right? No. Maybe. Oh my gosh. Did I just listen to Easton masturbating? Why am I whispering my thoughts? He can’t hear me. But I heard him. I invaded his privacy. I stand and pace around the room frantically. I feel weird, like I should tell him the walls aren’t exactly sound proof. But that would be even more awkward.

Oh no, the bathroom door opened. He crosses the hall to his room. I wonder if he streaked across naked or wrapped a towel around his waist. Uh oh. He’s back in the hall. He’s going back downstairs. Sit down, Della. Stop acting like a freak. Chapter what? Paragraph what?

He knocks on my door. “Hey, Della. Are you decent?”

Um, of course. What kind of question is that? “Yes. Are you?”

He laughs and opens my door. He’s wearing shorts and a T-shirt, hair tied in a knot. I blink at him repeatedly, not sure how to act. “Sorry to interrupt your studies. I’m going to make tea if you want some?”

“Sure.”

“And I was also thinking since the rodeo this coming weekend is only an hour away, you might want to come out for the finals on Saturday and see what we do. It’s up to you. I just wanted to make sure you know you’re always welcome.”

I nod. “Okay. Thank you. That sounds fun.”

He smiles, then steps back into the hall.

“I heard you stub your toe in the shower,” I blurt out. “Are you okay?”

His expression gets stuck somewhere between about to laugh and complete bewilderment. Eventually he flashes an Everley super model wink and says, “I think I’m going to be all right.”

After he leaves, I lean forward and bang my forehead against my desk, repeatedly. Stupid. Stupid. I’m going to die of embarrassment.

Chapter 6
Easton

Della joins us on the driveway as we’re loading Chuck’s truck with our rodeo gear, getting ready to leave for the final day of competition. “Morning,” I say.

“Morning.” Her nose wrinkles after looking down at her flip-flops, jeans, and white tank top. “I don’t know what to wear to a rodeo. Is this all right?”

“That’s perfect,” BJ says. “You might want to bring a sweater for later, though. It can get cold at night.”

“Night? How long does the event take? I thought it was eight seconds each.”

He laughs. “There are a lot of events. Then we’ll go for dinner. And there’s a dance after. We’ll be out late.”

She inhales with a hint of frustration as if she feels that would have been useful information to have known beforehand. “I’ll be right back.”

I’ve got my new rigging stretched out in the garage, so I follow her inside to get it. Before I head back outside, I also grab a white cowboy hat that some girl BJ brought home once left here.

Della emerges from the house wearing a light-blue cotton dress that makes all three of us stare. No more bed bug bites to distract from her flawless skin. She changed into leather sandals and she’s carrying a denim jacket. She also pulled her ponytail out, ready for an outing that includes a dance later. Damn. Heads are definitely going to turn at the rodeo.

“Is that suitcase handle thing what you hold onto the horse with?” she asks.

“Yeah. This one is new.” I place the hat on her head and hand the rigging to her, so she can see what it feels like.

She tips the brim of the hat. “Thank you.” Then she lifts the rigging to test how heavy it is. “Eight seconds doesn’t seem very long. Is it really that hard to hold on?”

“Only when the horse is moving, darlin’,” BJ says.

All of us laugh.

Della hands the rigging back to me and runs her fingers over the tassels of our chaps, which are laid out in the back of the truck. Chuck’s are purple with yellow flames. BJ’s are two-tone blue. Mine are red, black, and gold. “These are pretty.”

“Which ones do you like the best?” Chuck asks.

She looks at him and notices the lightning bolts he got shaved onto the side of his head. They accentuate the ridiculousness of his mullet even more. “The red, black, and gold ones are my favorites,” she says. “But they’re all nice.”

“Do you like my new haircut?”

“Uh.” She studies it and her forehead creases. “It’s different.”

BJ smacks him in the back of the head. “See. Even the sweetest girl on the planet can’t find nothing nice to say about that redneck mop.”

“You don’t like my chaps. You don’t like my do. That hurts my feelings, Della,” Chuck shouts as he gets into the driver’s seat.

She blinks as if she’s about to get teary eyed and then glances at me.

“He’s kidding. It’s not possible to hurt Chuck’s feelings. And if people actually liked his business in the front, party in the back look, he wouldn’t wear it that way.” I open the back door of the cab for her and she climbs into the back-row seating behind Chuck. Then I walk around to get into the back on the other side. BJ takes the front passenger seat and we head out.

“Your truck is really nice,” Della says to Chuck to smooth things over.

“It’s too late for flattery, sweetheart. You already insulted my hillbilly hair.”

“The truck really is nice,” she says to me as she runs her hand over the leather seats. “I had no idea trucks could be this luxurious.”

I feign a sad look. “So, you weren’t impressed by my two thousand and five Silverado?”

“Yes. Or, I mean no, I was. Impressed.” A scarlet hue rises up her neck onto her cheeks and the terror of offending me makes her eyes widen. “Your truck is nice, too.”

“I’m just messing with you. Chuck’s truck is a sweet ride. It’s nicer than the rest of ours.”

“Thanks, buddy,” Chuck says and reaches back to fist bump me.

Pretending to be offended, BJ gasps and turns to glare at me. “You like Chuck’s truck better than mine?”

“Chuckie needs to be the best at something. Can’t you let him have the best truck?”

“No.” BJ crosses his arms to sell the sulk.

Chuck holds his hand up to make us all be quiet as he sings the chorus of an old George Strait song, then he says, “Although I appreciate the compliment, Della. You can’t compare a man’s truck or cock to another man’s truck or cock unless you’re hoping for a fight.”

“Watch your language, man,” I say.

Chuck shrugs his shoulders apologetically. “Sorry for cursing. I should have said trucks and penises. Or is it peni? That sounds worse than swearing, if you ask me.”

BJ takes a sip from his thermos, which is likely filled with vodka and orange juice. “You could use rig for both penis and truck.”

Chuck points at him to agree. “Rig works. I like it.”

Della’s eyes dart cautiously between each of us. “I can’t tell if you guys are joking or being serious.”

BJ rolls his head to look at her over his shoulder. “We don’t ever joke about trucks. Or penises.”

I wink at her and whisper, “They’re joking.”

She nods, but her eyebrows are still cinched together from the worry that she’s done something wrong. After letting her sweat it out for a while, BJ reaches into the back seat and offers her a piece of licorice to show her there are no hard feelings. She smiles and takes one for herself and one for me. “So, which one of you is the best at bucking?”

I chuckle at how her word choice sounds. I can’t help it. BJ turns in his seat to face her. “What did you call it?”

“Bucking. Isn’t that what you call it?”

“I call it a lot of things, darlin’. What do you call it, Chuckie?”

“Dirty rodeo, entering the chute, eight seconds of glory, backing the rig up, or bareback bucking works, too. No matter what you call it, I’m the best at it. I ride ‘em like a pro.”

Idiots. I should have known better than to invite Della along with them. It’s going to be a long hour of juvenile jokes and sexual innuendos.

“They’re talking about sex, aren’t they?”

“Yes,” I say, “We call it bareback bronc riding.”

Since I’m the only one giving her a straight answer she turns in her seat to face me. “Are the horses wild?”

“Not in the true sense of the word, no. They’re bred for bucking and raised in a pasture, but they have to be gentled enough to be trailered and loaded into the chute. Usually they’re geldings or mares.”

“What’s a gelding?”

Chuck raises his hand to ask a question. “Is balls a swear word?”

I shake my head to ignore him, then answer her, “A gelding is a castrated horse.”

Her face winces as if she can feel the pain. “And what happens if you all hang on for eight seconds? How do you decide who gets to win?”

“Judges score each ride. They look at your form and style—how well the horse bucks and how well you spur. If you don’t mark his shoulders out with your spurs before his front legs hit the ground, or if you touch the horse with your free hand, you get disqualified. If the horse stumbles they might give you a re-ride.”

“So, if today is the final round, which one of you is in the lead after last night?”

“BJ has the highest score right now. But we all have a chance to win it today.”

“Good job, Bailey.” She leans forward to pat his shoulder. “What’s the best score you can get?”

He turns, still smiling from the compliment. “It’s scored out of one hundred. Posting in the eighties is really good. If we post something in the nineties you should cheer your butt off.”

“All right.” She sits back to relax and adjusts the hat. “I’ll do a back flip and land in the splits if any of you score in the nineties.”

The boys go silent in the front seat, no doubt imagining her doing bareback bucking acrobatics in her summer dress.

There is no way someone as uncoordinated as Della could do a back flip. She obviously said it to pull their chains, which makes me smile. “Just make sure you don’t really blow out your knee when you do cheer.”

She laughs and shoves my shoulder playfully. “I wish you hadn’t noticed that.”

Chuck’s eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror for a second, then he glances at BJ. They probably think it’s only a matter of time before I end up handing over my rodeo winnings to them. It would be worth it, but what they don’t realize is a girl like Della would never give it up that easy. I’d have to work damn hard to even have a shot with her.

Chuck turns up the music and BJ is focused on his phone, probably sexting. So, after driving in silence for a while Della turns to me. “What do you plan to do with your MBA?”

“Run the family cattle ranch. My thesis is on sustainable farming practices, so I’ll probably get involved with speculative investments in that industry. What do you want to do with your engineering degree?”

“My main interest is water sustainability and regulation. I’d like to work on systems and infrastructure to make sure the world’s water supply is protected and accessible.”

As she passionately describes why she chose her field of study and enthusiastically shares her future ideas about ground water and aquatic ecosystems, a bunch of childhood memories that I haven’t thought about in a long time flood my mind. Specifically, things about my mom. And the reminder of her takes me off guard. When Della stops to check my reaction, I don’t know quite what to say.

In response to my speechlessness Della shifts uncomfortably in her seat, then blurts out, “We would die without water.” As soon as the words leave her mouth she hits her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. It’s not a competition. Farming is important, too. We would also die without food, obviously. I wasn’t trying to sound like my career with water will be more important than your career in sustainable farming. They are both cool, or important, or whatever.”

She makes brief eye contact, probably completely confused by the fact that I’m borderline choked up about the unexpected reminder of my mom.

“Sorry.” She fidgets with the strap of her purse and stares down at her hands. “I don’t know why I jumped to assume that you disapproved. And it really doesn’t matter if you do. You’re entitled to your own opinions.” She inhales sharply and then sighs as if she’s disappointed in herself for getting defensive. “I guess I’m used to justifying my reasons with my dad and it accidently spewed out. Just ignore me.”

I study her expression as she turns her focus to the passing scenery out the window. It’s weird, right? What are the chances I’d meet someone who has the exact same passion as my mom? It could be a fluke. Or it might be significant. Why does it feel like a big deal? It’s not. It’s just a random coincidence.

“Hey.” I reach across the cab and touch her elbow to get her attention. “The reason it took me a long time to react isn’t because I was judging your goals. The opposite in fact. I was thrown off for a minute because my mom was a water protector. It brought up some memories of her as you talked about it. It’s a good thing.”

“Really?” Della smiles at the commonality. “That’s really cool. What type of water protection activities was she involved in?”

“She was in charge of community education initiatives for water conservation in Three Rivers. She was also involved in a lot of national advocacy projects and even a few protests.”

“So, I would have liked her?”

“Absolutely.” I smile to myself as I check off all the qualities in Della that my mom would have liked. She would have loved her—actually—and not only because of the save-the-water ideals.

She spins in her seat to face me. “Sorry I misread your silence and jumped into defense mode.”

“I get it. I had to defend my choice to pursue an MBA with my dad.”

“Really? Why didn’t he agree with it?”

“He runs the ranch on a high school education. My grandfather before him ran it on a seventh-grade education. He would have preferred if I skipped the MBA and offered an extra set of hands on the ranch all these years instead.”

Her eyes track over my face as she decodes my expression. “If you don’t need the degree, then why was it important to you to do it?”

Got to hand it to her. She has a way of cutting to the core. My real reason for getting an MBA isn’t something I’ve ever talked about with anyone before. My dad likely knows on some level because he’s experienced discrimination and racism his whole life, too. But his understanding of my motivation to gain legitimacy is unspoken, as is most of our relationship. “Let’s just say you and I both have something to prove to people who don’t believe we can do whatever we set our minds to.”

She smiles and lifts her hand to give me a high five. “Cheers to proving the doubters wrong.”

“Cheers to that.”

“Hell yeah,” Chuckie pipes in from the front. “Fuck the doubters.”

“Language,” both BJ and I say at the same time.

“Sorry. Screw the doubters. Poo on the doubters. Doubters are dumb.” He throws up his hand to give up. “It loses its impact without the curse word. Sorry, Della, sometimes the F word is the only word that can adequately express how I feel about something. It’s just a word. I personally find the word cellophane offensive, but I ain’t gonna ask people to stop using it.”

“I didn’t ask you not to swear,” she says in her defense.

“You wince every time someone does. And these two keep yelling at me for it.”

“Sorry,” she says quietly.

“Don’t apologize, Della.” BJ shoves Chuckie’s shoulder. “Grow up, man. She’s a lady. You should be the one apologizing.”

Chuckie scoffs. “Sorry for being a country bumpkin who offends your sophisticated sensibilities, ma’am. But I am who I am. Get used to it. Or get out.”

“That’s real nice,” BJ mutters.

I make eye contact with Della. “Ignore him.”

She nods as if she plans to try, but I can tell she’s uncomfortable with the idea of someone not liking her, even if it’s someone like Chuck.

I lean over and gesture with my finger for her to move closer. “He’s just testing you to see where your breaking point is. Don’t let him get to you and you’ll earn his respect forever,” I whisper in her ear.

She nods again with the inspiration to do just that.

Della and I talk for the rest of the ride. Somehow, we move seamlessly from school to politics to travel. She’s smart, well-read, and she’s travelled to five continents. I’ve never been out of the US, so her stories about foreign countries are especially interesting.

By the time we arrive at the fairgrounds Chuck and BJ aren’t even listening to us anymore—maybe because they really aren’t interested, but more likely because they have a vested interest in Della and me getting close. We drive through the contestants’ gate and park on the grass lot next to the outdoor arena. It’s early, so I give Della a tour through the vendor and concession area while Chuck and BJ go get hotdogs. It’s not quite lunchtime, but she and I also stop to buy pulled pork buns and ice teas, walking through the fairgrounds as we eat. Eventually we make our way over to the pens where the bucking horses are kept.

“Wow. They’re impressive animals,” she says as she leans her elbows on the fence. “Their muscles ripple like athletes.” She watches them for a while, then turns to me. “What made you decide to be a bronc rider?”

I step in and lean on the fence next to her. “I didn’t really decide. It was more of a natural progression. Growing up on the ranch I watched my dad and all my uncles break horses. I saddle broke my first horse all by myself when I was eight years old. Since I was getting bucked around every day anyway, getting paid to stay on a bucking horse was a bonus. And it’s fun.”

She sips her iced tea through a straw and the way her lips surround it makes my heart speed up. “What do love about it the most?”

“Love about what?”

She laughs as if she thinks it’s weird that I lost the thread of the conversation. “Bronc riding.”

“Oh.” I’ve never directly been asked that question before. I push my hat back and watch the horses as I think about it. “Riding bareback on a wild horse is the purest form of horsemanship—it keeps me connected to my heritage.”

She nods and smiles. “That is a beautiful way to describe it. Have you ever been seriously hurt?”

I shake my head to downplay the injuries. “I’ve broken my wrist three times. My lung collapsed last season, which hurt. And I had a bad concussion in high school, which made me temporarily blind.”

She gasps and frowns. “Oh my gosh. You’re crazy.”

“Maybe.” I rest my hand on the small of her back to guide her to start walking again. I have to pull her elbow to sidetrack her past a manure pile. “Watch where you’re stepping.”

“Oh. Ew.” She hops over closer to me and wrinkles her nose. “Is that what I think it is?”

“Yeah. That’s why we all wear boots. We’ll have to get you some for next time.”

Her cheeks light up like a pink sunset and the corners of her mouth turn up in the slightest smile as she keeps her eyes fixed on the grass. I’m not sure if she’s embarrassed because she almost stepped in manure, or if she’s happy about the inadvertent invitation to come along again next time. Maybe it wasn’t inadvertent.

I stop in front of the back pen to show her the bulls.

“Yikes. They have horns.” She stands five feet back from the fence. “Why in the world would someone try to ride a beast like that? Bull riders must have a death wish. Or they’re not right in the head.”

I chuckle. “Everybody in rodeo is not right in the head. But once it’s in your blood you can’t help it.”

“Was your dad in rodeo, too?”

“Yeah. He was a bulldogger.”

Her eyebrows angle dubiously. “What type of event do they do with dogs?”

“It’s not with dogs. Bulldogging is what they call steer wrestling. The rider slides off a horse at full speed and wrestles the steer to the ground.”

“Really? Is that a practical skill? Do you have to actually tackle cows on the ranch?”

“No. Not exactly.” I chuckle. “Sometimes the ornery ones need to be wrestled with when we’re branding. I’m better at roping them, though. I used to compete in the roping event when I was younger.” I wink. “But the ladies like the bronc riders better.”

The wink makes her bite her bottom lip. Damn, that’s a move that’s going to drive me crazy if she keeps doing it. I exhale and remove my hat to run my hand through my hair. She doesn’t even know how sexy she is. Unfortunately, my body definitely does.

As we walk, she asks me more about rodeo and ranching. I’m not normally the chattiest guy in the world, but I like answering her questions because she’s genuinely interested in the answers. And since I’m also more than interested in getting to know her better, we talk the entire time as I show her the rest of the fairgrounds.

When we return to the participants’ lot, Chuck and BJ are both sitting on the tailgate, wrapping their riding arms. They’re grinning at the way Della just looked up at me with her big doe eyes. Avoiding their eager-to-get-paid expressions, I turn to face Della. “I need to warm-up and get ready. Do you want to hang out here with us or head over to the grandstand to watch the barrel racing? It’s going to start soon.”

She glances at the stands and then over at Chuck and BJ. “I’m interested to learn about what you guys do for your pre-game warm-up, or whatever you call it. But I wouldn’t want to be in the way if I stayed.”

“You won’t be in the way. You’ll probably get bored watching us stretch, though. And you’re definitely going to wish you didn’t have to listen to Chuck’s inappropriate jokes. But you’re welcome to hang out here.” I pull out a fold-up lawn chair from the back of the truck and set it up for her.

“I won’t be bored, but I don’t want to mess up anybody’s routine by lingering.”

BJ hops off the tailgate and slides on his leather vest. “Making lewd comments to girls is part of Chuckie’s warm-up routine. And I personally perform better with an audience, so you’ll be doing both of us a favor.”

She looks over at me. “Are you sure I won’t be in the way?”

“Positive. Sit down.” I slide the chair over for her and then open my bag to grab my spurs and boot ties.

Chuck, who’s only wearing his compression shorts, sits on the grass to stretch his hamstrings. “So, Della. Back to our earlier conversation about how you’ll celebrate if any of us scores in the nineties; what kind of underwear are you wearing under that pretty dress of yours?”

“Shut up, Chuckie,” both BJ and I say at the same time.

“What? That is a legitimate question. If she’s going commando I’m about to have the ride of my life.”

I shake my head and shoot her a you-asked-for-it look. Either she’s inexplicably amused by his infantilism or she’s trying to prove that he can’t get to her.

Chuck and BJ both have good rides—seventy-nine and eighty-three. I’m up last. My horse is loaded in the chute. And I’m nervous as hell. I underestimated how having Della here would affect my performance. It almost feels like the first time I ever rode.

“Woo!” Chuck slaps my back and then hooks the latigo. “I hope Della is warming up for that commando back flip because I feel a ninety coming on. Show her how it’s done, Havie.”

Motivated by his enthusiasm I strap on my neck collar and climb into the chute. After pulling my hat down over my forehead I wedge my glove into my rigging, roll my fingers, and crack my arm back for a tight fit. Lean back. Heels up. Nod.

The gate opens and the world literally blurs. I pull my knees up and drag my spurs along the horse’s shoulders, hitting his rhythm. The crowd roars because they can sense it’s a good ride. Better than good. Eight seconds of ripping on a horse that’s bucking like a champion.

The buzzer goes and the pick-up horse nudges next to me. I slide over its backside and land on my feet. As I tip my hat, I scan the crowd. Della is bouncing up and down in the front row and whistling with her fingers in her mouth. I point at her and then turn to watch the scoreboard. Too bad she was joking about the back flip because my score is definitely going to be at least a ninety.

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