Page 65 of Tame Our Wild

She sinks her teeth into her plush bottom lip. They say the eyes are the window to the soul, and I can see she wants me as much as I want her.

She’s just too fucking stubborn to admit it.

Retreating a step, I blow out a frustrated breath. How I went from loathing this woman to wanting her in more ways than just in my bed, I’ll never understand. Our banter makes me want to slam my mouth to hers—to shut her up and kiss her till she’s melting in my arms like she was in Salt Lake.

I bet the sex would be as explosive as we are.

Harlow will come to realize that sooner or later.

“Are you hungry?”

Harlow searches my expression. “Are you about to make a sexual joke?”

“No. But if that’s what’s on your mind—”

“It’s not.”

Bullshit.

She huffs, giving me an answer. “Yes, I’m hungry. But after traveling, I want to shower first and check on Cosmos.”

Her growing fascination with Paisley’s horse pulls at the frayed and rotting rope in my chest. Whenever I look at Cosmos, hundreds of memories flash across my vision. Visions of hot summer days when toys were sprawled across the front porch, when my sister and I were just two young kids.

When Paisley chose her first horse, she wanted one that looked exactly like that plastic white-and-brown paint horse that she took with her everywhere.

Church.

Camping.

The lake.

School—shoving it into her backpack as kids do.

That toy shifted before our eyes into a living, breathing thing when my dad took us to an auction. She begged my dad for the young mare as she trotted around the pen. Before we knew what was happening, my dad’s hand flew up, and the announcer was saying, “Sold to paddle number 547.”

Paisley’s accident might have changed our family dynamic, but Cosmos hasn’t been the same either since Paisley can’t ride her.

I’ve tried to work with Cosmos, but she won’t have anything to do with me. Before Harlow, I struggled with the thought of keeping something so beautiful and wild contained within four stall walls when she’s not grazing the pastures. However, the idea of selling her didn’t sit right with me, given she’s not my horse.

When I walked into the stable that day to see Harlow’s arms braced on the stall door and Cosmos before her as they shared the same string of breath, it gave me confidence that maybe she could be tamed again—find someone new to trust and give her devoted loyalty to. Ironic, considering the woman before her can’t seem to be tamed either.

Cosmos and Harlow are one and the same.

I nod, shoving my hands in my pockets. “I’ll make us some sandwiches.”

At some point, while I’m in the kitchen, moving about and collecting things to make our sandwiches, the front door closes. I peer out the kitchen window, watching Harlow walk to the stable in her usual lazy day outfit—sweats, her boots, and a maroon Carhartt jacket with her hair tossed up into a high ponytail.

I haven’t had a woman who isn’t blood invade my space in the way Harlow has. One-night stands happened, but they were rare. It’s the reason I would partake in entertaining myself with a buckle bunny or fan each weekend on the road, but this year that urge hasn’t been there. If I’m being honest, not since I saw Harlow at that first event in Tucson at the bar at the start of the season.

It might be dangerous, but I’m getting used to having her flood my home with her warmth and bright smiles. She effortlessly fits in with my property, like she was always meant to be here, working with my horses, baking in my kitchen, and driving me goddamn wild.

She opens the double doors to the stable and slips inside, closing them behind her, but not before looking up toward me as if she knows she’s being watched. My head falls between my shoulders.

Like her, I should be cautious. God, if kissing her—feeling her—is branding me this way, I should be concerned about what this might mean for us if it goes further.

However, I can’t bring myself to care.

I don’t particularly enjoy being patient, but I will.