“It’s kinda silly, I know. I picked my favorite color when I was eight. I think I was the only one who chose yellow.”
There was a sound of a food package in the back, and then Dead bumped her arm gently.
When she turned around, it was a Skittles package. He was cradling most of the candies, but when she opened the package, only yellow ones were left.
He didn’t say anything else, just looked out the window with vacant eyes.
For her? He didn’t need to apologize for trying to kill her anymore. She believed him. He didn’t mean to. His bull had, and maybe that was something she needed to think on more. Maybe Dead didn’t have control like the other bull shifters. Scary. But she needed to know that so she could manage risk for him in the future. She wanted to know everything. All their quirks, their needs, their likes and dislikes. She wanted to be the best agent she could for them. She wanted to be a part of their story.
And she’d learned a helluva lot today.
Two Shots reached across the console and squeezed her hand, gave her a smile, and then released her. Even with the gash over his eyebrow, he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. And he was smiling for her. More butterflies flapped around on her insides, and maybe she’d been wrong. Maybe she wasn’t too mature and above-everything to fall like this. Maybe she was lucky to fall again at all.
Because this? Whatever was burning between them? It felt right.
And it had been so damn long since anything felt right.
He’d come for her. Mid-buck, he’d targeted Dead and stopped him from killing her.
She was going to think on all that later and let it sink in. But for now? She was going to relax, melt into the warmth that Two Shots gave her, and just be thankful things didn’t go worse today.
Chapter Eleven
Two Shots couldn’t sleep. Not after what had happened today. Not after he’d seen the fear in Cheyenne’s face as Dead slammed into the fence she’d been sitting on.
Pretty girl. Tough girl.
She’d been in trouble, and he almost hadn’t made it to Dead in time to stop him. He knew that rage. Dead would’ve gone right through Wes Kaid to get to Cheyenne.
Dead’s bull was fucked up. Oh, he was good at hiding it. At controlling how he changed and keeping himself separated from humans, but his bull hated them. And that, ladies and gents, was exactly how Dead of Winter was the number two bull out of hundreds in this circuit—hatred.
That hatred had been aimed at Cheyenne today, and Two Shots couldn’t stop playing it on a loop over and over in his head.
Her room was just a couple floors above him, but going up there would be pointless. It was three in the morning, and she would be fast asleep.
He should let her sleep.
Big day tomorrow, and didn’t he know it. The pressure wasn’t the same anymore. It was bigger now. If he had a bad ride and dropped to number four bull, Cheyenne wouldn’t be representing him anymore, and the thought of her having to drop him made his guts churn.
No more talking on the team text. No more spending time with her. No more learning random things that made him even more protective of her. No more being there if she got in a dangerous spot again.
No more being close enough to absorb all the goodness she radiated. He was like a sponge, soaking up the good—the sound of her laughter, the country twang she got in her voice when she was being sassy. The pretty pink in her cheeks when she was mad at him and the boys for being dipshits. The way she’d posted up for him in that interview. Protective girl.
She hadn’t been wearing her pantsuit today. No siree, she’d been wearing tight little cut-off shorts that had showed off her curves. Little red tank top, exposing the perfect amount of cleavage that had kept his mind circling on how soft her breasts would feel in his hands.
Big day tomorrow.
He rolled over onto his other side in the hotel bed and checked his phone. Ten-ten at night and he’d been lying in bed for two hours already. He always did this—always tossed and turned the night before an event.
He sat up and ran his hands through his hair, opened up a text that had come from Dead outside of the loop.
There were several pictures of him and Cheyenne.
Unbeknownst to Two Shots, Dead had taken pictures of them at lunch before they’d gone to the Kaid Brothers Ranch. Dead and Quickdraw had sat on one side of the table, devouring roast beef sandwiches, the cannibal savages, with Cheyenne and him on the other side. The first picture Dead had sent him was of Two Shots holding out the chair for Cheyenne before they sat.
He didn’t think about it. Wasn’t trying to win brownie points. His momma had just raised him right, to be respectful of women. Cheyenne would have to put up with a lot over her time representing the bulls, but as long as Two Shots was here, he was going to make her feel taken care of when he could.
In the picture, Cheyenne was in the middle of sitting down, but she was looking off to the side with this sweet, surprised smile as he pushed her chair in under her.
The next was of Two Shots grinning at something Dead had said. He almost didn’t recognize his smile it was so big. So easy and genuine. It wasn’t the smile he wore for the interviews or promotional pictures. It was a real one, and it had been so damn long since he’d seen it on himself. And Cheyenne? She was leaning on an elbow on the table, a French fry dangling from her fingers, her lips parted slightly, her dark hair fanning out over her shoulders, and her eyes…those pretty brown eyes…they were trained on him with this look of awe. Awe? What was she thinking in that moment? What would make a tough girl like her go all soft like that?
The next picture was of them both laughing. Two Shots had his hand resting on the back of her chair and she was leaning toward him like it was the most natural thing in the world to be close to him.
Oh, he was in trouble with this one.
Another text came in from Dead. The media will see you together like this. They will chew her up and spit her out. You owe her, Two. Protect her from it.
He didn’t like anyone having an opinion on his feelings or personal life. Didn’t like being told what to do, but Dead was right.
Yeah? And how do I do that? Send.
He expected Dead to tell him to stay away from Cheyenne. He really did. He was already pulling on his sweatpants to go to Dead’s room and beat the shit out of him for sticking his nose where it didn’t belong.
But Dead didn’t message him what he’d expected. Instead, the text that came through said, When you’re in front of the media, pretend you aren’t in love with her. Buck good tomorrow. Don’t lose focus, don’t fuck up. Night, Two.
A wave of desperation washed through him. Desperation for a connection, he supposed. I killed her man. Send.
So?
So what right do I have? Send.
To protect her? To make her smile like she did in the pictures? To open her heart back up? Every right, and fuck what they’ll say. You owe me ten thousand dollars for this therapy session. This is weird. Sleep, asshole.
Two Shots huffed a laugh. Well, that was the truth. It was weird asking any kind of advice from another bull shifter, much less a dominant, competitive one. He sat there on the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees as he stared at her pretty face in the pictures. That woman didn’t know how to hide emotion. He could read every thought right there, etched into her expressions. She was so readable. He hadn’t found a single thing he didn’t like about her.