Page 28 of Tame Our Wild

Her deep blue eyes roll. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she mutters, turning and disappearing as she walks back down the hallway.

“Love you, Mom,” I call out to her, smiling.

Her beautiful laughter is farther away, but it warms my bones like she is still standing in the room. “Love you too!”

A few beats pass before Melanie sighs. “Now that she’s gone”—she crosses her arms, standing her ground—“I’m calling it right now.”

I pick up a shirt from the pile of clothes next to her on my bed. “Calling what exactly?”

“You are about to be living with an incredibly hot, pain-in-the-ass, cocky bull rider. Something is bound to happen, and you know it!”

“No, I don’t know it because it won’t happen! I am going for one reason, and one reason only: to let him coach me.”

Her skeptical eyes zone in on me, igniting a burst of unease that skitters up my spine. “Whatever you say, dear sister. I’ve heard the best sex is hate sex.” She points to her chest. “So, I expect a phone call after you both fold and it happens, because I want to know if it lives up to the hype.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“And you’re about to ruin my whole social media strategy for you this season. The whole rivalry thing was blowing up your account. Do you know how many followers you’ve gotten since I posted that picture of you two at the bar?”

Nope, I don’t know, and to be honest, I don’t really care about any of it besides the other female bull riders who reach out here and there, saying I inspire them. But I also hired Mel to manage my social media presence because it is easier to land big sponsorships and influencer deals. If it weren’t for that aspect, then I wouldn’t do it. But Melanie loves it, and she’s good at it.

Which is clear when she says, “You’ve gotten over five thousand followers in the last month, Harlow. Five thousand!”

My lips twist to the side. I wish they were following me for my skills and my story, and not just my rivalry with the arrogant bull rider who knows all the right buttons to push to aggravate me.

Colson finds too much amusement in playing that game where you keep pushing something toward an edge, waiting to witness the exact moment it finally tumbles and shatters. To him, it’s like I’m some shiny, breakable object.

Now I’m about to live with him …

His comment that I would never be able to make it to the PBR was one thing. I was seventeen, and there were so many other riders and buckle bunnies trying to get his attention after the competition. He probably viewed me as a kid, and that comment was a way to dismiss me. Didn’t make it hurt any less, but it was motivation to push myself.

Yet that night at the bar a few years ago was my undoing. When I decided that he was a complete and utter ass. The moment when his damn mouth unbearably tightened the rope weaving through my ribs and around my heart.

I try to push the memory away, but the faint haze of smoke and the air thick with tension sit heavy on my lungs, as they did that night, spurring the vision.

The music from the speakers pulses the floor under my boots. The bar is more packed now than it was an hour ago. People are lined up and pushing their way toward the bar, impatiently waiting to get a drink. My beer is nearly gone now, but a part of me came here tonight hoping that I would start to make some acquaintances with my competitors.

Other athletes are hanging around, all of them surrounding a tall table in the corner, laughing and drinking like they’ve been competing together for the last several years, which they have.

I’m the newcomer.

The only girl in a sea of men who don’t think I should be competing at their level.

A bead of sweat glides down the ridge of my spine, every hair rising in response to his presence. He places two beers on the table, pinning me with a look that has my breath hitching in my throat.

We’re halfway through my first season, yet most of my interactions with Colson have been shared only through glances and glares.

Has he finally figured out who I am? That I’m the girl who he said should stick to the women’s circuit?

He slides one of the beers toward me. “You look like you need another.”

I stare at him suspiciously, scanning his handsome face framed by long locks that curl up at his ears under his cowboy hat. He has the face that belongs on a men’s outdoor magazine cover and not on the back of a bull.

“Oh, come on,” he taunts, pushing it closer when I don’t answer.

I shouldn’t have been expecting that he ditched his table with the other bull riders because he finally remembered me, but my gut still sinks.

My eyes lower to the extra beer. “Thanks for the drink, but I’m good,” I say, lifting my glass and downing the rest of it before setting it back on the table. “I’ll probably just head back to the hotel and get some rest for round one tomorrow.”