Page 22 of Tame Our Wild

My eyes thin into slits, and I move to stand, giving up on this conversation.

His growl is mixed with an exhale. “Wait.”

I slide back into my seat, watching him remove his black cowboy hat and place it on the booth beside him. He pulls his fingers through his hair, tousling it in that effortless way that makes wings flutter in my lower belly.

Damn, he has nice hair.

It’s not like I see it often when he always has his hat on. It’s not hurting anyone if I take a second to admire it. The strands are just long enough to curl slightly over his ears and at the nape of his neck—long enough that I could hold onto him and keep his head exactly where I want it between my …

Excuse me. Why is that the thought that’s going through your head?

Shaking myself out of whatever trance I’m in, I circle back to something he said. “Did you say you want to coach me?”

He folds his arms over his chest. “I’m surprised by it, too.”

“Are you? Because that came out of your mouth pretty easily. You’re not laughing or have that smirk, which means you’re either trying to joke around or wet panties.”

Now it has the nerve to show up. “Wet panties?” he repeats.

Hearing that word come out of his mouth causes goosebumps to erupt on the surface of my skin. Colson Payne makes it sound so … erotic. Beautifully filthy.

“Oh, shut up—” I point a finger at him. “You know exactly what I’m talking about because you’ve perfected that smile and know how people, specifically women, react to it.”

“And how do you react to it, dust bunny?”

Shifting in my seat, I try to ignore the burst of heat flooding my cheeks and traveling south. I refuse to believe Colson Payne is turning me on. He notices my movement and is full-on grinning now in that arrogant way that makes me want to deck him across the jaw again.

My face heats. “I shifted in my seat because you’re making me uncomfortable, old man.”

He braces his arms on the table, his voice dangerously low. “I bet your panties would say something different.”

Oh, shit.

My body is a traitor. We should not be reacting to him this way. Yet I can’t help but recognize this interaction is making such a heavy day feel lighter. It’s even more confusing that Colson is the one brightening such a gloomy week.

For the first time since our plates were set down in front of us, he reaches for his fork and digs into his omelet. He waits as I process what he’s offering. Those words spiral until a headache forms between my eyes.

“I want to coach you.”

He takes a bite and glances back up at me.

“Oh my God,” I breathe. “You’re serious.”

“Completely.”

A manic laugh sputters out of me. I can’t help it; this man—my rival—is suggesting that I let him coach me.

I drop my head in my hands. “This is a dream. You can’t possibly be saying what I think you are.” I peek up at him. “Did you hit your head during your last ride, or did I? One of us is going insane.”

His fingers tighten around his fork, his knuckles appearing white against the silver metal. “That’s not fucking funny.”

The smile is wiped clean off my face. I toss my hands up in defeat. “How do you expect me to react, Colson? We are competitors, and you aren’t a coach!”

He sets his fork on the table. “I have as much or more experience being a professional bull rider than several coaches on the circuit. I’ve been at this sport for sixteen years and have two buckles under my belt.”

“And haven’t retired yet,” I remind him.

His chest vibrates in frustration. “You’re a rookie and need a coach! You didn’t even make it through your first PBR season.”