Page 40 of Tame Our Wild

“I am,” I answer.

“This is fucking unbelievable. Is that even allowed? Were you even going to tell me?”

“I figured you’d react like this.” I gesture to him. “I don’t see why it would be an issue. I’m a veteran and nearly done with my career.” The admission tastes bitter on my tongue. “And I knew you’d be here this morning since our flight to Washington is this afternoon.”

“I was—” He swallows, tensely shifting his cowboy hat on his head out of nervous habit. “Shit. I was worried about you when you didn’t answer.”

Confusion pulls at my features. “Why?”

Matt shakes his head. “You know why.”

I sink further into the couch cushions, dragging my hand over my face. I should’ve told him about Harlow, but he might hate her more than I do. Did. I don’t know; we’ve only had a few days together since she got here, and we’ve been more civilized than I thought we would be.

Ever since she punched me in the jaw and split my lip the night before the ride that broke her leg, Matt hasn’t been fooled by her sweetheart persona—even though he knew that it was my fault because I had a few too many drinks. I turned into a raging dick and crossed the line. I should’ve known the girl before me wouldn’t have had any issue putting me back in my place.

I said things I shouldn’t have; I’ll admit that. Harlow just has this glimmer in her eyes that challenges me in ways I should be able to control at my age.

Before this arrangement, we were always in a space where we were high on competition and relished in the way it flowed through our veins and fed our determination. It will be interesting to see how things change between us the moment we get to the arena tomorrow for round one.

The sound of wheels rolling upstairs grows louder. Matt and I both look up and see Harlow lingering at the top of the stairs with her luggage. She’s dressed in black boot-cut jeans and a long-sleeved blue top that makes her hair look like pale sunshine over Caribbean waters. To pull her look together, she’s wearing her taupe cowgirl hat.

She purses her lips and lifts the handle, struggling to carry it down the stairs. When she gets to the bottom, she glances between us before leaving her bag where it is and approaching my best friend.

She puts her hand up between them. “I know you’re a bullfighter, but I guess we have never officially met. I’m Harlow.”

He defiantly stares at her hand before releasing a condescending exhale. “I know who you are.” I clear my throat, and he takes the hint, placing his hand in hers like a child being forced to cooperate with another kid after a conflict. “Matt.”

She smirks and jokingly says, “I know who you are.”

A red, irritated flush creeps across his face while I try not to laugh.

Her sass is funny when it’s not directed at me.

“You guys are insane,” he mutters, releasing her hand. “This is going to blow up in your faces. Especially when people hear that a rider is coaching another rider.”

“Which is why I think we should keep this under wraps,” Harlow says to Matt, but I know it’s directed toward me, too. A reminder of how she feels about our scheme. “I don’t want it to cause issues with the other riders. The media has already blown up our rivalry, and right now, it’s working to my advantage, trying to resecure sponsorships.”

I blow out an exasperated sigh, my focus lingering on the rivalry aspect of what she said. That is something we didn’t discuss. “So, you want to act like we still hate each other whenever we’re competing?”

“Who says we don’t?” I search her gaze carefully, wondering if the brief glimmer of mischief and playfulness is there or if it’s all in my head. But it doesn’t matter.

“Fine.” My tone is firm. “We’ll part ways as soon as we get to Seattle. Wouldn’t want us to get caught being friendlier than usual and threaten your sponsorship opportunities.”

Matt’s eyes ping-pong back and forth with too much amusement.

Harlow’s chest rises and falls. “I just mean we should keep our interactions minimal when we’re on the road and in the arena—like nothing has changed.”

I rise to my feet. “Yep. I got that.” They both watch as I make my way across the living room toward the stairs. “I’m going to finish packing.”

My pissy demeanor is throwing me off.

I don’t care that she wants to keep up this competition between us when we’re on the road.

I don’t.

Keep telling yourself that.

I’m only helping her to tighten up her skills, block out her fear, and keep improving so she doesn’t end up under the hooves of a beast that doesn’t give a damn about her when it’s just the two of them on the dirt.