Page 75 of Buckin' Around

“So, we’re homeless?” I ask. I can’t help the panic that lines every stupid syllable. I know this is not his fault.

“No. We are not going to bethat.”

“Spencer,” I breathe.

Something like desire flickers through his eyes, but they narrow as he plucks up his phone. “Brades has an empty worker’s cottage on the ranch. Hang on...”

He flicks a message off and drops the phone to the counter.

My grip is turning white around the fork I hold. Spencer rises, rounds the counter, and hauls me into his chest. My cheek squishes against his hard muscle.

“Not homeless. I promise you that. Breathe, Riles.”

I choke past the last breath that snagged in my throat.

Stop it, Riley. This is not only about you. This is not the time...

Calm the feck down.

My choppy, short breaths don’t respond to my internal chastising.

A large hand cradles my head, running over my hair.

“You’re okay. We’re okay. I’ll make sure we are.”

After a handful of heartbeats, he releases me. I stare up at him, cheeks flushed, hands now curled around the opening of his shirt, clinging like it’s a damn lifeline. His fingers close around my biceps, not letting me out of his space.

“What will you do now?” I try to put distance between us, but his hold doesn’t budge.

“I have the PBR income. If Brades can let us rent that cottage... We’re good.”

“What if you get hurt on the circuit, and they drop you from the team... What if your father takes your truck, or has some kind of sway with the PBR?”

I know I’m panicking.

I have never unraveled, not like this. Somehow, the weight of being twelve and left with a farm to run and five siblings to feed comes flooding back in all over again. The helplessness I felt. The crippling heartbreak that threatened to drag me into its dark depths every day, every night, for that first year...

Something meets my face.

Cool, crinkling.

My next breath makes it expand.

My ass hits the hard seat of the counter stool. The room around me blurs.

Spencer blurs.

But I can still feel him in my space.

I can still feel him.

He’s right there.

On the next, deeper exhale, the bag inflates with a crackle.

“Good girl,” Spencer says in a raw, low tone.

He’s losing his home, and I’m the one fecking panicking.