a good kisser, with those full lips of his. …”
“Don’t go there,” I say, shaking away any memory of that variety. “So not discussing it.”
“Fine. It’s not like you have a scale for comparison, anyway,” she says, pursing her lips and nodding in a strangely solemn way, like it’s really important to rate his kissing ability.
“Please tell me you don’t have a scale,” I say, sitting up again and fanning myself with my hand, though it does nothing but make me even hotter.
She grins, that familiar wicked gleam in her eye. “Sure. Ilike to know how great a guy is on a scale between Trevor Greenwood and Patrick Burrows.”
“Patrick Burrows?” I ask, thinking of the boy from my homeroom class, the one who spent the whole time creating anagrams from SAT words. “Really?”
“Yep. Best kisser by far.”
I shudder. “I can’t believe we’re best friends.”
“I know, you’re so lucky,” she says, and we both laugh, knocking shoulders. Then she clears her throat. “Oh, speak of the devil.”
“Patrick Burrows?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun to see in the direction of Bailey’s nod. “Oh.”
“Is his horse always that hyper?”
Storm is dancing at the end of the reins, but Landon just maintains his solid grip and walks as if it’s no big deal that a thousand-pound horse is hopping around like a bunny on crack. “Yeah, pretty much. He’s got his roping saddle on and Storm knows it. He’s a total hothead for roping.”
“Oh.”
“Should we bail?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t know the rules of engagement. Without the aid of explosives or whatever.”
“First, no, you do not let him run you off, and second, dude , explosives! We could blow up his junk.”
I laugh. “I wish.”
We don’t move from the fence panel, which thankfully is at the far corner of the arena, one of the few spots with shade. Another rider on a horse appears, as do a couple of other guys who walk over to the chutes.
“He must be practicing for the upcoming rodeo,” I say. It’s not really a high-stakes rodeo—more of an expo, really, in whichsome of the locals and the hands run through the usual events. It’s kinda silly, since they don’t get too competitive about it, but it’s easily the biggest draw of the summer for our guests. A real live rodeo, right outside their log cabins.
The cabins are already sold out, which makes this lunch break all the more important. Bailey and I have been working like crazy all morning, and I’m not eager to go back to work twenty minutes earlier than I have to.
As for the rodeo, I’m in it too. I’m running barrels. I’m not any good at it, but neither are the other two girls, so the guests never seem to know the difference. Half of them think that a fast lope and a gallop are the same thing, and who am I to point it out? Everyone gets a bonus at the end of the summer if the comment cards are 95 percent satisfactory or better, so we’ve learned to fake it.
There’s a commotion at the other end of the arena, and it’s obvious the guys are loading the chutes, because I see a white-faced steer pop into view as he crow-hops inside the little box. Landon climbs aboard his horse with his usual practiced ease, settling into the saddle before turning away and starting his warm-up.
Either he doesn’t notice us or he’s ignoring me, because he stays at the other end of the arena, trotting in lazy, large circles rather than hugging the rail and coming all the way around, to where Bailey and I are sitting.
“He’s totally ignoring you,” Bailey says, voicing my thoughts.
“Good,” I say. “I really don’t want to talk to him.”
“We can’t possibly nail him with ball-exploding devices all the way over here,” she says.
“A real tragedy,” I say, smiling. Somehow when she’s by my side I feel less like I’m about to come undone.
“Why’d he toss his rope?” she asks, gesturing to where he hooked it over a post.
“Maybe he’s
“Don’t go there,” I say, shaking away any memory of that variety. “So not discussing it.”
“Fine. It’s not like you have a scale for comparison, anyway,” she says, pursing her lips and nodding in a strangely solemn way, like it’s really important to rate his kissing ability.
“Please tell me you don’t have a scale,” I say, sitting up again and fanning myself with my hand, though it does nothing but make me even hotter.
She grins, that familiar wicked gleam in her eye. “Sure. Ilike to know how great a guy is on a scale between Trevor Greenwood and Patrick Burrows.”
“Patrick Burrows?” I ask, thinking of the boy from my homeroom class, the one who spent the whole time creating anagrams from SAT words. “Really?”
“Yep. Best kisser by far.”
I shudder. “I can’t believe we’re best friends.”
“I know, you’re so lucky,” she says, and we both laugh, knocking shoulders. Then she clears her throat. “Oh, speak of the devil.”
“Patrick Burrows?” I ask, shielding my eyes from the sun to see in the direction of Bailey’s nod. “Oh.”
“Is his horse always that hyper?”
Storm is dancing at the end of the reins, but Landon just maintains his solid grip and walks as if it’s no big deal that a thousand-pound horse is hopping around like a bunny on crack. “Yeah, pretty much. He’s got his roping saddle on and Storm knows it. He’s a total hothead for roping.”
“Oh.”
“Should we bail?” I ask. “I mean, I don’t know the rules of engagement. Without the aid of explosives or whatever.”
“First, no, you do not let him run you off, and second, dude , explosives! We could blow up his junk.”
I laugh. “I wish.”
We don’t move from the fence panel, which thankfully is at the far corner of the arena, one of the few spots with shade. Another rider on a horse appears, as do a couple of other guys who walk over to the chutes.
“He must be practicing for the upcoming rodeo,” I say. It’s not really a high-stakes rodeo—more of an expo, really, in whichsome of the locals and the hands run through the usual events. It’s kinda silly, since they don’t get too competitive about it, but it’s easily the biggest draw of the summer for our guests. A real live rodeo, right outside their log cabins.
The cabins are already sold out, which makes this lunch break all the more important. Bailey and I have been working like crazy all morning, and I’m not eager to go back to work twenty minutes earlier than I have to.
As for the rodeo, I’m in it too. I’m running barrels. I’m not any good at it, but neither are the other two girls, so the guests never seem to know the difference. Half of them think that a fast lope and a gallop are the same thing, and who am I to point it out? Everyone gets a bonus at the end of the summer if the comment cards are 95 percent satisfactory or better, so we’ve learned to fake it.
There’s a commotion at the other end of the arena, and it’s obvious the guys are loading the chutes, because I see a white-faced steer pop into view as he crow-hops inside the little box. Landon climbs aboard his horse with his usual practiced ease, settling into the saddle before turning away and starting his warm-up.
Either he doesn’t notice us or he’s ignoring me, because he stays at the other end of the arena, trotting in lazy, large circles rather than hugging the rail and coming all the way around, to where Bailey and I are sitting.
“He’s totally ignoring you,” Bailey says, voicing my thoughts.
“Good,” I say. “I really don’t want to talk to him.”
“We can’t possibly nail him with ball-exploding devices all the way over here,” she says.
“A real tragedy,” I say, smiling. Somehow when she’s by my side I feel less like I’m about to come undone.
“Why’d he toss his rope?” she asks, gesturing to where he hooked it over a post.
“Maybe he’s
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