▍ AN ORIGINAL ╱ western romance
There's a kind of wild you can't outrun.
Lemon Odell knows this better than anyone-the kind that lives under your skin, that shapes the way you move, the way you fight, the way you break. Born into a bloodline stitch...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
The words hung between us, low and intimate, like a secret he wasn't afraid to let slip. And God, it stirred something dangerous in me. My heart skipped a beat, my pulse quickening despite myself, and I hated how easily he disarmed me with just a few words.
His gaze flicked down to the brush still clutched tight in my hand, then back up to my eyes.
"Are you always this prickly, or is it just me?"
My jaw tightened at his question, every word laced with that easy, infuriating drawl, as though he was probing just to see what I'd do.
"Depends on the company," I said, the brush handle digging into my palm. There was an edge in my voice I didn't bother to hide. I was used to people either backing off or digging in, but him? He was too steady, and it was unsettling in a way I wouldn't admit.
A low chuckle escaped him. Not mocking, but... knowing. He folded his arms, the fabric of his shirt stretching over his chest, muscles shifting beneath sun-worn cotton.
"Must be some real unlucky company then," he said, his tone softening like he was letting the tension between us loosen.
Before I could find a way to respond, he took a step forward, slow and deliberate, closing the space between us without crowding me. His hand moved—a careful reach—as though he was giving me the choice to close the distance or pull away.
"Colt Langmore."
I felt the name settle like a stone in my chest, something tightening around my ribs.
Of course. A bull rider.
It was always the same with them—the way they thought the world revolved around those eight seconds they managed to stay on the back of a wild animal. Like that brief grasp of glory gave them the right to bulldoze through life, expecting everyone to part like water around them, as if the earth itself bent under their boots.
My arms crossed. My gaze narrowed just enough to send the message. I wasn't impressed.
"Bull rider, huh?" The words came out flat. More of a statement than a question.
He tipped his head, a slight movement, the barest flicker of amusement in his eyes. He knew exactly what I was thinking. Probably heard it all before.
"That a problem?"
I lifted a brow, my voice cooling. "One of the top ones, right?"
I didn't need confirmation.
I'd heard his name whispered enough times in rodeo circles. Colt Langmore. A ghost passing through the circuits, showing up just long enough to dominate, to remind everyone who he was, before moving on. I'd heard plenty, but I'd never expected to cross paths with him. And honestly, I'd hoped it would stay that way.
His grin widened, just a fraction, like he was savoring the fact that I knew his name.
"I get by."
A small scoff escaped me before I could stop it. "Bull riders always do," I muttered under my breath. More for myself than for him. But his eyes flicked, catching the words easily. And by the look on his face, he was used to it.
