Long hours? Expected. Endless pressure? Comes with the job.

But the real kicker about working for the family business? Two overprotective brothers who still think I need their permission to breathe.

Especially when it comes to him. 

Spoiler: I don’t.

Maybe I should’ve known it would come to this. My whole life, I’ve been asking for things I couldn’t have, and that includes Eric Waters.

Cowboy extraordinaire. Dream-crusher. Heart-thief.

I close my eyes, chasing calm in the antiseptic air, and suddenly I’m eight years old again, begging my dad for a pony on a perfect summer day.

Sunlight pours in. The wind whips through the open windows, tangling my hair. A white pony grazes in a pasture nearby, its mane shimmering in the sunlight like it knows it’s majestic. I reach out from the backseat and clasp my father’s shoulder. My tiny hand clings to him like he’s my lifeline. 

“Daddy, can I have a pony?” I ask, my voice dripping with the kind of innocence that makes parents weak.

He chuckles. “A pony? Not a full-sized horse?”

I shake my head. “No, I’m too little for a horse.”

He reaches back and ruffles my hair. “Nonsense, sweetheart. You could handle a horse just fine.” 

The memory wraps around me, warm and sticky as caramel. I’m bouncing in my seat while  Mom sits up front with a picnic basket balanced on her lap. The winding roads of Lords Valley stretch out forever, but when we finally arrive, excitement courses through me like a cherry Popsicle sugar rush. Horses graze lazily in the paddock, their tails flicking away flies like they own the place. 

And that’s when I see them.

Tall and wild, lining the fence like they’ve been waiting for me. The flower golden faces turn to the sky, bright and bold and full of life. I press my face to the car window, mesmerized.

“What are those called Mom?”

“They’re sunflowers,” she says with a smile. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“I think that’s my favourite flower,” I declare.

Dad parks the car. I unbuckle and leap out. The scent of hay and leather lingers in the air, mingling with the steady thrum of hooves on dirt. As I lurch forward, my little feet can’t keep up with my body, but Eric Waters catches me before I hit the ground. My brother’s best friend, older, broader, and already more myth than boy.

My hero then, and maybe always.

I’ve idolized my dirty cowboy since that day. I learned about the dirty part years later, and at eight years old, I don’t know any of that yet. He’s just a towering figure with an easy smile and mighty hands that lift me onto a horse like I weigh nothing. 

“Hold tight,” he murmurs, adjusting the reins in my tiny hands. The horse beneath me shifts, warm and solid, while my heart does a somersault.

I’m weightless. Powerful. Free.