Page 71 of Knot my First Rodeo

Oh, I could kill him.

“You know what?” I push up from the table, chair scraping loud enough to make me wince. “Forget it.”

“Autumn.”

“Nope.” I point at him. “You do not get to do what you did yesterday, and then suddenly become emotionally constipated this morning.”

Tripp chokes on his drink hard enough that Clint has to shove a napkin toward him.

Briggs just stands there looking infuriatingly calm.

“You done?” he asks.

My mouth falls open.

I hate him, actually hate him.

“Stupid, sexy asshole,” I mutter under my breath, grabbing another piece of bacon as I walk past him.

Behind me, I hear Tripp laugh.

Then Clint, sounding way too amused, asks, “Did she just call you sexy?”

A beat of silence, then Briggs, quieter, “… shut up.”

Stupid, big, bossy, sexy-ass alpha and his talent for pissing me the hell off.

My boots crunch harder against the dirt than necessary while I stalk toward the chicken barn, carrying entirely too much attitude for somebody currently sweating through their shirt before nine in the morning.

Somehow he was capable of just sitting there drinking coffee, acting all calm and completely unaffected, while I’m over here trying not to spontaneously combust every time I think about the fact that he had me pressed against a truck hard enough to short-circuit my damn brain.

You done?

My jaw tightens.

I hate him. Probably. Maybe. Whatever.

Up until his ass kissed me, the only real problem I’ve had since getting here is waking up so damn early. Not that I’ve ever been much for sleeping in, but back home I’m up around eight, so this six a.m. cowboy nonsense still feels vaguely criminal. Every night I tell myself I’m going to go to bed earlier, and every night I end up curled in bed, reading on my Kindle until suddenly it’s midnight.

Last night’s terrible decision happened to involve dragon shifters and a fantasy romance that completely ruined my ability to be responsible. Mostly because I’m pretty sure I only opened the damn thing to stop thinking about Briggs. Big mistake. Turns out replacing one obsession with another isn’t exactly effective when the dragon hero keeps smirking in a way that reminds me of an annoyingly attractive cowboy. I kept telling myself one more chapter, then somehow ended up halfway through the damn book before finally forcing myself to sleep.

I duck into the chicken barn and grab the feed scoop, muttering something under my breath that would probably offend polite society while the chickens immediately start yelling at me.

“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter. “Everybody’s dramatic today.”

The second I unlatch the pen, they rush forward in a feathery wave of attitude, darting around my boots while I scatter feed across the dirt. Clint always acts suspicious of them, which honestly feels unfair. But in his defense, they do look a little prehistoric.

My mouth twitches despite myself as I watch one puff up and chase another away from the feed.

“They really do look like those weird feathered dinosaur things from Jurassic World,” I mumble. “Tiny murder birds.”

I refill the waterer, wipe sweat from the back of my neck, and crouch to grab eggs from the nesting boxes one at a time.

Suddenly, a cramp rolls low through my stomach, hard enough to make me pause, breath catching briefly while I brace one hand against the wall of the coop.

I shift my weight, and I freeze when I feel sudden dampness between my thighs.

“Oh, come on.” The complaint slips out under my breath before I can stop it.