Page 90 of Tame Our Wild

I nod slowly, reach for the plastic cup of water on the table, and take a sip.

“And you’re Harlow Hartt, your competitiveness is the core of who you are. It’s why you hated dancing, remember? Mom had to drag you to the studio.”

I remember those days. Sometimes I would shove my ballet shoes under the car seat when I thought she was distracted and then search my bag like I couldn’t find them. Eventually, I think my mom caught on, because she would peer at me through the rearview mirror with those warm eyes narrowed.

“I may find a thrill in ballet, but you were never meant to,” Mel says honestly. “You were meant to be out there riding, and the only person who needs to believe that is you.”

My mouth tugs upward into a smile. “You should consider being a therapist instead of a social media manager.”

She wiggles her nose, instantly letting me know what she thinks about that idea. “Nah, the only reason I can analyze your life is because I’ve been there through all of it. I’ve seen you at your worst and watched you thrive at your best, and seeing you burst into that room with Colson is the lightest I’ve seen you in a long time. You deserve to feel like that every day.” Mel shrugs. “People change. You know you have, and it’s unfair for you to think he hasn’t.”

My gaze drops to my fingers that usually have some trace of dirt. Picking it out from under my nails is a nervous tactic I picked up a long time ago, but my hands are clean, so I’m forced to look back up at her. “I think he said those things for a reason, but I’m not sure why.”

“Then why don’t you ask him?”

I try to allow the fresh air and view to soothe my anxiety, but there’s something deep and sharp poisoning my gut as I think about what plagues Colson’s past.

I think about Melanie’s question, knowing there’s only one reason I haven’t asked. I think I’m too scared to hear his answer.

THIRTY-EIGHT | HARLOW

Islip my new sunglasses down to rest on the bridge of my nose, covering my eyes from the late afternoon sun, failing miserably to control my excitement. At any moment, I’ll get to see the man I can’t stop thinking about. I may have been exploring the Tahoe area with my sister the last few days, but time has dragged on, my mind wandering to him any chance it could.

It’s probably pathetic—the fact that the man whose presence I wanted to avoid at all costs is now the one I crave. The one I seek out.

The spring sun washes over me, my foot tapping against the concrete while I wait outside the baggage claim. A few trucks that are the same color as Colson’s roll up here and there, my eagerness increasing tenfold as I see them, and then taking a harsh dive when I realize it’s not him.

I mean, my flight did arrive early, so I can’t blame him for being a few minutes late. I’ll still give him hell for it though. Our bickering has taken on this heated, sharp edge that we seem to chase now because it either leads to shit-eating grins neither of us can hide or our clothes end up torn off and discarded on the floor.

I enjoy both.

I like that while the rest of the world sees this hardheaded, no-fear, wild rider not afraid to get dirty with guys, I’ve started to let him peek behind the curtain and coexist with the girl who started riding because she loves it, and not because of the fame and attention that comes with being an anomaly in the sport. He sees my imperfect pieces, and in a way, it’s those things that have allowed us to find common ground.

When nearly twenty minutes go by, concern and worry are blooming in the pit of my stomach.

Did he forget I was flying in today?

We’ve been exchanging texts since I’ve been gone, but he hasn’t answered any of them today. The second I pull up Colson’s contact to call him, an unknown vehicle pulls up in front of me and rolls down its window.

A middle-aged woman raises her voice, catching me off guard when she says, “Are you Harlow Hartt?”

My brows knit together as my heart smashes against my ribs. My mind wanders to several different scenarios—the first being how this stranger knows my name. “Uh … yeah. Why?”

She waves a hand, signaling me to come closer, and I hesitate. She may be a woman, but stranger danger knows no gender.

When she sees me hesitate, she points to the dash. “I’m a Lyft. Your friend Matt booked you a ride because something has come up.”

My breaths are shallow as I slowly pace toward the car. The familiar white-and-purple Lyft sign is on the dashboard, but it doesn’t ease my reservations about what the hell is going on.

Matt was never supposed to pick me up.

I crouch lower to peer through the window of her small sedan. “And where did he tell you to take me?”

She glances at her GPS, easing my nerves a little when she says, “305 Hickory Lane.” When I don’t say anything, she gives me a look that says she doesn’t have all day. “Can I take care of your bag now?”

Shit. My gut is rolling, but I reach for the backseat door handle and toss my purse and backpack inside while she gets out of the car and opens the trunk to help me put my luggage in.

The drive feels longer than it should, the cab silent, and the road stretching out like the unease that curls in my belly. I shoot off a few texts to Colson, each one delivered but not read. By the time our tires hit the gravel road heading to the ranch, my knee is anxiously bouncing. My heart hangs in my throat, my uneven breaths continuing to churn the questions bouncing around in my head and the anxiety in my gut.