WNDR6099

Eight Seconds to Her

Colt Mercer has ridden every bull on the circuit without flinching, but he cannot cross ten feet of dirt to say hello to Wren Calloway. She barrels through the arena like a comet — fast, bright, impossible to look away from — and every time she passes him with that easy smile, he swallows whatever is burning in his chest and says nothing. Eight weeks. Six stops. One narrow corridor behind the chutes where they keep almost colliding, and tonight someone else just put his hand on her shoulder and laughed like he belonged there.