Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 95273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 95273 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 476(@200wpm)___ 381(@250wpm)___ 318(@300wpm)
That has his head whipping up. “What? Why?”
“I’m old,” I reply.
“You’re thirty-three.”
“In the rodeo world, that’s old as fuck. You know my list of injuries, and I’ll only injure easier as I get older. I don’t want to be forced out, I want to leave on my own terms. I’m sore, and I’m tired. Hell, sometimes I have the walk of a sixty-year-old man, and I knew that I was signing up for that, but it’s time to step down. And given that I’m retiring at the age of thirty-three, half the age of normal retirement, I have to make the money stretch.”
“Rem would pay you for the work you do at the ranch.”
“Fuck that.” I shake my head in disgust. “That’s my family. I don’t get paid for taking care of my family. Besides, I live there for free. That’s all I need.”
“You’re really going to live in that tiny cabin for the rest of your life?” The look he sends me says, get real.
“Probably not. Maybe I’ll build something out there.”
“Well, you’re a wealthy man, Brady.” He taps the keys on his computer, logging into my portfolio, which I let him dick with. Having a billionaire brother has its benefits. “Even before being paid for these new sponsorships, you’re well into the eight figures. Rodeo has done well for you.”
“Yeah. It has.”
“You can build whatever you want. Pretty much anywhere you want. I don’t see any reason why you can’t comfortably retire from riding after this season and then do whatever pleases you.”
“Good.” I nod, satisfied that Ryan has my financial stuff under control. “I figured that was the case, but I wanted to talk it through.”
“I’m proud of you,” he says, his eyes earnest. “Looks like I’ll be buying a bunch of new hats and boots soon.”
“Don’t forget the jeans.”
He grins. “Trust me. I won’t forget.”
Abbi: Please don’t feel pressured to stop at the store for me. But if you’re willing, here’s my list: OJ (no pulp), …
I read through her list and feel myself grinning as I pull a cart from the carousel and head for the produce. Her list isn’t short, and I don’t mind a bit. I know she’d rather stay home while her daughter recovers, so I’ll gladly take this chore off her plate.
Noticing that the strawberries actually look good for this time of year, I check Abbi’s list and see that she didn’t have any on it, but I add them to the cart anyway. For the next hour, this is how it goes. I am sure to get everything that Abbi’s noted and toss in a few extra things that I think they might enjoy. I know that Abbi loves chips and salsa from the cookouts we’ve had together, so I grab those. Daisy has a sweet tooth, like me, but I know that Abbi tries to keep the sweets for treats, so I just add some whipped cream for the strawberries. And, maybe, I snag a little bag of sour candies, too.
By the time I check out, I’ve far surpassed the twenty or so items on Abbi’s list, and I don’t really give a shit. I’m discovering that I enjoy doing things for Abbi and Daisy. I like being with them. We’ve said we’re going to take it one day at a time in this—whatever it is—and I’m still nervous as hell to start something when I’m still going to be riding a bull in just a couple of months. But by fall, I’ll be retired.
Maybe I can hang in there for that long. Maybe I won’t try to date her or touch her or hell, anything, until then. It sucks, and it won’t be easy, but I can do it.
And then, I won’t have any of the what-ifs hanging over my head when I finally do allow myself to feel something for a woman.
I can finally make promises. It’s the right thing to do, for both of them.
With that decided, I load the groceries into the back of the 4Runner and drive over to Abbi’s townhouse. I back into the driveway so there’s not as far to go with the bags and open the tailgate to retrieve them.
The front door opens, and Abbi comes jogging out, grinning. “Hey there, Cowboy.” When she sees the pile of white plastic bags, her eyes go wide. “I know I didn’t have that much on my list.”
“I might have found a few extra things,” I reply with a shrug as she loads up, and we walk inside. “You stay in, I’ll get the rest.”
“I can help—”
“It’s too damn cold,” I reply, shaking my head as I set the bags near the front door so I don’t track snow through the house. “I’ll be right back.”
I’m able to get the rest of the groceries in one trip, drop them off inside, and then hurry back out to close the tailgate. When I close the front door behind me, intending to just talk to her for a minute before I head home, Abbi’s frowning at me from the kitchen where she’s unloading the groceries.