The midday sun poured through the swinging doors of the Dusty Trail Saloon, catching on the glass you were polishing behind the bar. Country music hummed low from the jukebox, mingling with the clink of beer bottles and quiet conversation. Your body still ached in the best way from the night before, and just thinking about it brought a slow smirk to your lips.

Then the doors creaked open.

Boots thudded against the wooden floor, spurs jingling with each step. Heads turned. He didn’t usually show up when the sun was up, which is why every damn pair of eyes in the room followed Simon “Ghost” Riley as he walked in, tall, broad-shouldered, his cowboy hat tipped low, dust on his boots, and that slow, purposeful stride that made hearts stutter.

And maybe… knees, too.

Your towel stilled in your hand. He made a beeline straight for you, ignoring the curious stares.

“Didn’t think I’d see you before sundown,” you said, voice light, but your eyes flicked over him. He looked… good. Too good.

Simon stopped at the bar, his gloved hands resting against the worn wood. “Didn’t think I’d want to see you this bad either,” he said low, for your ears only.

Your heart thumped. But before you could sass him back, he leaned in, close enough for only you to hear.

“I’m ridin’ tonight,” he murmured. “Bull ridin’. I want you there.”

You arched a brow. “Since when do you ask me to watch you throw yourself at a pissed-off animal?”

His lips twitched into a near-smile, and damn it if that didn’t make your stomach flutter. “Since last night.”

A pause.

Then he added, voice rough, “just this once”