Going no-contact with his dad was harder on him than I expected, but freeing in the best way.

Now he can stand on his own.

Become a WBRF champion, won and earned without Carl’s shadow looming over him. Just Emmett, years of hard work, and all that natural talent.

And of course, he has me by his side.

He’s stuck close, always touching me in that way he does when he’s preoccupied. I know his mind is running a hundred miles a minute, but being near me soothes him.

An hour ago, I held his face, kissed him, and told him I loved him with all my heart.

Then I gave him a little shake and said, “Win this for me, Brandt.”

He’d given me a firm nod and a deep kiss and walked away to warm up.

A man on a mission.

Now I watch the crown of his black cowboy hat bobbing behind the fencing, behind the chute. When he climbs up, my heart stops in my chest. The allure of dating a bull rider has always been lost on me. It never felt especially unique or interesting, but that’s all changed now.

Now I look at him and wish there was something I could do to make this victory happen for him.

Instead, I sit and watch with my stomach in knots and incessant sweat on my palms. He climbs up the fence, looking down over the white-speckled bull he pulled. Smarty Pants. Known for turns and dekes, he supposedly concocts a fairly intelligent plan to fuck you up.

Emmett needs to bring his A game.

His chin tips up, and his eyes scan the crowd. They land on several of our cameras before finding me.

He doesn’t smile. He doesn’t wink. His tongue pops into the side of his cheek, and he tilts his head as if to say, Are you ready?

I grin back at him, saying, Let’s fucking go with my eyes.

We started off communicating with mere looks, and it’s become a more carefully honed skill set over the past several months. We can read each other so well.

With a quick nod, he drops onto the bull, the fringe of his black-and-red chaps flopping down as he seats himself. I’ve been watching him ride all season, and I’ve watched him take some ugly spills. None of them made me as nervous as this moment.

I try not to think about my dad and that this exact moment took him from us.

I’ve convinced myself that it’s a statistical improbability for me to live that story twice. Still, I’ll feel a deep sense of relief when this ride is over, no matter the outcome.

Emmett’s got the eye of the tiger. He’s focused. The cowboys around him speak to him, and I see his lips move, giving them one-word answers. Our cameras are up close, and I’ll be able to review the tape later. But for now, I want to stand back, enjoy the view.

I get to watch the man I love accomplish something he’s dreamed about his entire life, with a front-row seat.

Before I know it, he jerks his chin, and the gate flies open.

My stomach shoots into my throat, and my hand flies to my chest. Every muscle in my body tightens as I look on.

Smarty Pants drops into a vicious spin, jostling Emmett and his rope hand, but his incredible balance kicks in. His core corrects the motion, his heels flipping up to spur the bull harder. The bull jumps and kicks higher as it slams on the brakes and takes a turn in the other direction.

Emmett’s body moves like water over rocks in a creek bed, flowing, adjusting, adapting. Perfectly natural.

And for all the bull riding I’ve watched this season, I find myself admiring this ride especially. It’s not only because he finally found the strength to cut ties with his father and have him banned from WBRF events. I always thought that watching Emmett ride would fill me with overwhelming dread.

Instead, I often find myself in awe of him. At the edge of my seat, yes. But in anticipation.

He oozes talent and skill. He is always artful in his riding style, but there’s something special about this being his last professional ride. It chokes me up.

He’s the man I love, doing the thing he loves with such joy. And it touches me in a completely unexpected way.

I get lost in the moment so intensely that I’m startled by the sound of the buzzer ringing.

He jumps off, but he doesn’t celebrate. He turns to look at the scoreboard, waiting with bated breath for the score to pop up.

The rodeo clowns clear the bull, and Emmett doesn’t move.

He stands there.

My heart beats in time with his. My stomach turns and my chest aches.

The pull to him is so strong.

I know his family is in the stands, but the sight of him standing out there all alone does me in.

Without a second thought, I duck through the fencing and walk toward him, my eyes on the scoreboard, waiting for the number to appear.

My step stutters when it does.

91.5.

A win.

He doesn’t throw his hat or shoot his hands up in the air. The first thing he does is turn and look for me.

And I break out into a run, already halfway there.

I launch myself into his arms, and he catches me, spinning me around.

“You did it. You fucking did it!” I shout into his ear as he squeezes me.

“You told me it was for you, Jules. What choice did I have?”

The crowd fades away as he kisses me soundly. And like so many times before, it doesn’t matter who’s watching.

It’s only ever felt like it’s just the two of us.

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EPILOGUE

Emmett

THIS YEAR, CHRISTMAS is different. I’m not partying on a boat. I’m not on the road for work. I’m not running.

I’m with my family. Although they’ve all gone to bed for the night, Julia and I linger in the warm glow of the farmhouse where I grew up.

The anniversary of my parents’ death is a day I usually hide from. Tonight, I stand in the living room, slow dancing by a crackling fire with the woman of my dreams.

Her arms drape around my neck, mine gripping her waist. We sway wordlessly, and I’m certain that I’m more content than I’ve ever been in my life. More peaceful than I knew possible.

It wasn’t until Julia that I recognized the constant state of anguish that I’d lived with. Every moment, every day. The self-loathing. The feeling of being a burden.

In the past two years, Julia’s steadfast love has all but erased it.

“This was a pretty good Christmas,” she murmurs, hips swinging gently, giving me ideas that are definitely inappropriate for the moment.

“I think it might be one of the best I can remember,” I say, trailing my hand up and down her spine. She’s wearing a baggy, loose-knit sweater that’s all too easy to slip my palm beneath.

“You know, one time,” she murmurs, “when they were filming the show…”

I stiffen. Mentions of filming the show still have that effect on me.

“I slowed down on my way off the property because I could see your oma and opa doing exactly what we’re doing.”

“Foreplay?” I ask with a quirked brow that only gets me a scoff and an eye roll.

“No, dancing. Just like this. The yellow light of the house shone out onto the driveway, and I could mostly just see their silhouettes. But also, the look on your opa’s face. Pure adoration.”

“Doll, that was definitely foreplay.”

She slaps me on the shoulder with a light laugh. “Stop ruining my story by being horny.”

I groan. “I can’t help it. Have you seen yourself? I’m permanently horny when I’m around you. You don’t even need thorns in your ass. It’s boner time, all the time.”

She laughs again, shaking her head in mock exasperation.

“What I’m saying is I love their love.”

“It’s a special one, I agree. One of the best relationships I’ve ever seen.”

Now the weight in my pocket sits heavy and hot as I feel the moment barreling toward what I’ve been planning for some time now.