Mom shakes her head and turns her attention to me. I’m scared she can see through me, or maybe she notices the glow I’ve been sporting all morning from having the best sex of my life. “Going back to the rodeo?”

“I am. Gonna check on everything, walk around a bit, then make my way to the judging area,” I explain.

“We’ll see you there,” she tells me as she refills her cup of coffee.

“Okay, well, bye!” I sing-song and rush outside.

It’s so quiet I can hear the birds chirping and the light breeze blowing through the trees. When I get in the truck, I become all sorts of nervous. Gavin was the perfect distraction to keep me out of my head about this competition, but now that I’m alone, it’s all I can think about.

I drive to the rodeo as fast as I can. Once I’m parked, I text Gavin and let him know I’m back.

Gavin: Good. I missed you. I’m still at the camper. Wanna meet me here?

Maize: I’ll be right there.

A blush hits my cheek, and I realize I’m biting my lip. My heart flutters as I walk to the RV, and when I knock on the door, he comes out.

“Want to grab some coffee?” he asks, looking sexy as sin in tight jeans, boots, and a black button-up shirt.

“Thought you’d never ask.”

We mosey to the food trucks, his fingers brushing against mine as we walk. I want him to grab my hand, but I also know we could get caught too. The smell of bacon and eggs makes my stomach growl, and Gavin offers to get us some breakfast burritos because I’m starving. As we sit at a picnic table and eat, I try to imagine what it would be like to be with him. How our life could be if we were together. Would my parents accept our relationship? Would I be enough to keep him here?

“Only one hour to go,” he reminds me around a mouthful.

“I know. I’m getting super anxious.”

He places his hand on my thigh, and that’s when I realize my leg was bobbing up and down, and I stop moving.

“Sorry, bad habit,” I admit with a smile.

He finishes his burritos and crumples up the foil wrappers. “Your breakfast has spoiled me. Nothing tastes good anymore unless it comes from the B&B.”

“It’s the secret sauce,” I say, then nudge him.

“Do you bottle it up and sell it?” he jokes.

“Nah. The secret sauce is cooking for the love of cooking, not for the money,” I explain.

He tilts his head at me and nods. “I understand and respect that so damn much.”