Page 58 of Tame Our Wild

We should’ve canceled, or better yet, come up with an excuse, but it’s too late to back out now.

When Colson opened the email from Kickin’ Up Dust, I knew something was wrong by how his shoulders tautened and annoyed lines creased his forehead. Then I read it, and my stomach dropped. We’ve both interviewed with Mark and Heather, but never together.

Then we had a momentary lapse of judgment after having a few beers that night in the hot tub, and we thought maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. So, we both said yes, and now here we are in Dallas, the day before the next event starts, and for some reason I feel like jumping out the twenty-seventh-story window.

Of course, we formed a game plan, deciding to stick with the competitiveness that ties us together. Even the breaths between us have always contained this sharp edge we’ve never been able to dull. Well, not until he started coaching me, and whatever we were before is muddying into something that is unfamiliar.

I tuck my rogue bra strap under the sleeve of the square-neck, hot pink, long-sleeved shirt I chose for today. I’ve got my boots and hat on, my long hair perfectly curled, and minimal makeup perfected. I look like a country Barbie, and I’m digging it.

A knock sounds at my dressing room door, and my heart jumps into my throat. This may be a podcast, but they also upload it to YouTube. It’s nationally known to anyone with a little country running through their veins. With how much money they are bringing in now, Heather and Mark have gone from a small building a few years ago to a recording studio in a high-rise in Dallas.

Colson luckily has his own dressing room across from mine. I haven’t seen him in the last twelve hours, considering we do what we always do: separate at the airport as soon as the time calls for it, so we arrived at the studio separately.

“Harlow, are you ready?” Heather calls in a sweet, sugary tone.

I turn from the mirror and open the door, coming face-to-face with her flawless form, all done up in her usual power suit with her brown hair in loose waves.

“Ready,” I respond, not at all believing myself.

I follow her down the hallway, my heart smashing against my ribs, the pulse in my neck violent as I struggle to calm myself down.

Truthfully, Colson and I have no idea what the hell we are getting into with this. My guess is they want to stir the pot between us more and capture our rivalry in a new light. It’s different to toss us into a conversation with each other than to catch it from dark corners in an arena and through social media posts.

Thank you, Mel.

We reach the end of the hallway, and she stops in front of the door with a Recording in Progress neon sign hanging above. It’s already illuminated, and I pause. When Heather turns to face me with a wicked smile, I glare harder than I should.

“Okay.” She claps her hands. “So, we have decided to do things a little differently and get things rolling early. Since this is live, we want to capture all the authentic feelings between you two.”

Authentic.

That word rolls around in my head. Technically, nothing about this is authentic, considering Colson is my coach now, and I’ve been living with him for the past few months. But they don’t know that. They’ll never know that.

I purse my lips and nod. “A bigger heads up would’ve been nice.”

She shrugs, reaching for the doorknob. A playful grin pulls at her glossed lips, telling me she has been eagerly waiting for this. Not sharing another word, she opens the door and walks through first, and I follow, my breath whooshing out of my lungs when my eyes instantly land on Colson standing by the couch talking to Mark.

His hands are tucked into his jeans that hug that firm ass in a way I’ve tried not to notice. It’s difficult not to when I’m forced to watch him strut around the house and property all day. Doesn’t matter if it’s a pair of shorts, jeans, or those sweatpants that hang low on his hips; he is infuriatingly a work of art, and I can’t help but foolishly admire him.

He’s wearing an army-green button-down tucked into his pants, adorned with that coveted buckle he won last season. Today he went with a black cowboy hat and boots.

I’m a girl, so I notice his wardrobe. For obvious reasons, I haven’t seen this man’s closet, but with the several hats, buckles, and different boots I’ve seen him wear, I’m betting his closet looks like Mia’s from The Princess Diaries, except instead it’s a cowboy’s haven. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s as immaculate as that one is, with all his buckles and boots neatly organized.

When those turquoise eyes settle on me, my tongue disintegrates into sand. For some reason, whenever we separate for events and then see each other again, a swarm of sharp-winged butterflies flutter chaotically in my stomach and bat around until I’m forced to ignore them. His gaze rakes over me slowly, like he’s taking his sweet goddamn time to memorize everything about me.

I do the same to him.

When a throat clears, we both snap out of whatever trance we are in.

“Colson,” I greet, trying to keep my tone even.

He gives me a curt nod. “Harlow.”

We leave it at that momentarily, eyeing each other. To Mark and Heather, it may look like we are standing off, but the reality lies at the opposite end of the spectrum. This is something far more dangerous.

“Damn, we haven’t even started, and the tension in this room is already thick. It’s enough to suffocate a man.” Mark laughs deeply.

A corner of Colson’s mouth lifts. “Welcome to our world.” Gesturing to the couch opposite Mark and Heather, he says, “Ladies first.”