“Am not,” I said, sounding defensive.
“How often do you Google your name daily?”
“Not much.”
“Where’s your phone when you go to bed?”
“On my pillow.”
“When you wake up, what’s the first thing you do?”
I firmed my lips.
“That’s what I thought.”
“I’m not addicted, okay? I like to keep track of what’s going on in the world.” I stared him down. “Take me to my cabin, or I’ll hobble there myself.”
“You’re staying with me, and if that means I have to burn down your little She Shed, I will. I want to make sure you’re okay.”
“I won’t be doing cartwheels anytime soon, but I’m fine.”
He looked at me like he was about to give me a lecture or throw me over his lap and spank my ass.
“You’re stayin’ with me, and that’s final.” He held my gaze until my heart did backflips.
“One night,” I relented.
“Three nights,” he countered, “then we’ll renegotiate.”
He smiled. And, oh my Lord, it was the kind of smile that made me want to open my legs and invite him in.
“While you’re here, there’s something I want you to try.”
“And what would that be?”
“An electronic detox.”
“A what now?”
“Give up your devices for a few days.”
“Hell to the no.”
“I bet the whole time you’ve been here, you haven’t explored the land, gone up to the waterfall, hiked.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Doing what? Moping and feeling sorry for yourself? Looking for imaginary stalkers?”
“No.” Yes, yes, and yes. So what? I liked being online, and I loved my phone. Cyberstalking myself and people from my old life gave me a weird sense of satisfaction.
Giving up my phone cold turkey like I’d given up alcohol wasn’t something I wanted to do, but maybe I could limit the time I spent mindlessly scrolling to one or two hours a day.
“Sorry. Can’t give it up.”
“Can’t or won’t?” The glint in his hazel eyes showed he was enjoying every minute of torturing me.
“Won’t.”
“I don’t think I’d ever let anything have that strong of a hold over me.”
“Liar. You’re addicted to bull riding.”
“Not the same. I don’t ride to torture myself. I ride because it gives me purpose and makes me feel like I’ve accomplished something.”
“Your logic doesn’t make any sense. I’m not giving up my phone. End of conversation.”
“Guess you’ve got no willpower.”
I sucked in a breath between my teeth and held it before I unleashed hell or beat him over the head with my crutches. I had more willpower in my pinky than he had in his entire body.
“Listen here, Judgey McFuckface, you have no idea what I go through every day, so keep your opinions about my willpower or lack of it to yourself.”
He smiled softly, and his hazel eyes connected with mine. I wanted to smile, and sigh and swoon, but I bit all three reactions back. He didn’t need to see how much he affected me.
“Noted.”
Dylan helped me out of the truck, and once again, his touch sent tingles throughout my body. It was as if the span of his hands were made for the width of my waist.
It’d been a while since I’d been in a man’s arms, or I should say, it’d been a while since I remembered being in a man’s arms.
Drunken hookups weren’t something I ever recalled the morning after. The bruises and not being able to walk straight told me exactly what had happened the night before.
I liked rough sex occasionally, but not the kind that hurt for days after. Every time I woke up saddle sore, I promised myself the next time I slept with someone I would be stone-cold sober, but just like every other promise I’d made to myself back then, I’d broken it within a day or two.
Dylan held onto my elbow. I flinched when my ankle hit off one of the crutches, sending spikes of pain shooting up my leg.
“You sure you don’t want me to fill the script?”
I shook my head and gritted my teeth against the pain. The last thing I needed was to get hooked on opioids. “A few Advil will be fine. I don’t need hydrocodone.”
“You need me to help you in the house?”
“I’d appreciate it.” He helped me shuffle inside and over to the kitchen table. The one I sat at when going back and forth with Tricia almost every day for the past few months.
I turned my phone over and over in my hand. “If I accept your challenge and agree to spend less time online over the next three days—not give it up, you understand—you have to do something for me.”
“Depends on what that is.”
“Why are you going against your doctor’s orders and planning to ride when you already have a concussion? Don’t bullshit me by saying it’s all for the glory and the rush of winning.”
Dylan
“It’s a family thing. My granddad and dad were bull riders. My older brother retired from the circuit and runs the farm for my mom. My younger brother is up and coming. My two younger sisters are barrel racers. We were born to it.” I sat down opposite her and spread my hands. “No bullshit. I want the championship buckle. I came close last year. Close the year before, too.
“I wish I could explain the high you get from lasting eight seconds on an eighteen-hundred-pound bull. It makes you feel invincible. Like you’re unbreakable.”
“But you are breakable.”
I chuckled but inwardly flinched. “I haven’t died yet.”
Her brows furrowed. She wasn’t buying it. I didn’t care. My business was my business. She might be an open book, but I wasn’t. Someone I met a few hours ago didn’t need to know about the last few years of my dad’s life. How he’d slipped away
