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collided with Lyle’s jaw. How ’bout that? Sweet Violet could say fuck you plain as day, without even moving her lips.

Chapter 6
    He might be an arrogant jerk, but Violet had to admit watching Joe Cassidy fight bulls was worth the price of admission. Knees bent, hands on thighs as he waited for the next bull rider to nod, he was a coiled spring. Violet rubbed her palm down the front of her chaps, trying to massage away the memory of his touch. The sizzle of connection. The way his fingers had tightened when he felt it too.
    Violet jerked her hand as if it were still in his grasp. Dammit. Why couldn’t she lust after a man’s brains for a change? But no, it was always the physical. And not just looks, but how a man moved, the wonder of bone and muscle honed to perfection. Joe Cassidy was all that and more—the indefinable something that elevated a star from merely athletic to exceptional.
    Better than anything that’s set foot in one of your arenas, sweetheart.
    â€œTake him left,” Steve Jacobs called out to Joe. “Right around the end of the chute gate.”
    A good-natured Brangus they called Carrot Top—named for his orangey color and the tuft of curly hair on his hornless head—peered out between the slats of the chute gate. Joe flashed a thumbs-up and adjusted with a few springy steps, shooting a quick glance over to check Hank’s position. Violet released a pent-up sigh. So much for a positive role model. She’d wanted someone who’d teach Hank a little humility. Instead, she got Joe.
    As the cowboy took the last wrap of the bull rope around his gloved hand, Joe rocked onto the toes of his cleated shoes, as if the adrenaline was blasting out through the balls of his feet. He’d dumped the wireless mic, added knee and ankle braces and a Kevlar vest under his jersey. Not a whole lot of protection considering the average bull weighed as much as an entire NFL defensive line.
    The cowboy nodded, and the gate swung wide. In a flash, Joe was there, tapping Carrot Top on his curly head, drawing him around and into a bounding spin. The rider hung tight for two, three, four jumps, the crowd noise swelling. As the eight-second whistle sounded, the bull threw in a belly roll, whipping the cowboy off the side. Hank stepped in, flicking the bull’s ear. Carrot Top swung around to follow him. Hank danced backward, his hand on the bull’s head. He did a full pirouette, tapped the bull again, and danced away. Carrot Top did the equivalent of an eye roll and a shrug and lumbered toward the exit gate as Hank tipped his hat to the whistles and cheers of the crowd.
    Violet ground her teeth. Carrot Top might not hurt a flea—intentionally—but if Hank kept showboating, one of these days he’d push his luck too far. She could only hope he got hurt just bad enough to teach him a lesson, and not enough to cripple him for life.
    Joe watched, arms folded and face expressionless. While the announcer started his spiel about the last cowboy set to ride, Joe strolled over to Hank. He raised his hand, but instead of a high five, he flicked the brim of Hank’s cowboy hat, tipping it down over his face. When Hank grabbed for the hat, Joe cuffed the back of his head hard enough to make him stagger.
    â€œHey!” Hank spun around, hat clutched to his chest. “What was that for?”
    â€œQuit fucking around,” Joe said.
    â€œI was just having a little fun!”
    â€œYou want to do tricks and take bows, join the circus. You want to be a bullfighter, get your ass over there and pay attention. Use your brain instead of just your feet.”
    Hank tossed Joe a sulky look, but put his hat on and did as ordered. Well. That was unexpected. Violet sat back in her saddle, giving Joe a second look. Then the soundman shifted into a familiar thrumming guitar lick that swelled into a thundering crescendo.
    â€œIf you’re not already on the edge of your seats,