Page 60 of Tame Our Wild

It’s a text from Christa, the woman I worked with when Ariat was my sponsor.

Christa: Attaching the link to my schedule. Book a meeting with me when you’re free. Congrats on making it back to the PBR, we’ve been watching!

Watching me ride or keeping up with the rivalry? Odd timing for this message to come through, considering we finished the live stream fifteen minutes ago.

Staring at the message, I shake my head. “Figures.”

“Figures what?” A raspy voice fires off goosebumps that skid across my skin.

I turn rapidly with my phone clutched in my hands to see Colson slipping into the room and closing the door quickly behind him.

“Shit, you scared me.” I tilt my head, studying him. “You shouldn’t be in here. They’ll think something is up.”

“They are distracted, talking to the crew.” He paces further into the dressing room toward me, nodding to the phone in my hand.

I release a frustrated breath. “It’s Ariat. I’m assuming they want to talk about a sponsorship.”

He keeps stalking toward me, and I back up, running into the vanity. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Why you wanted us to keep acting like we hate each other?”

I swallow. “Yeah, but I want them to want me because of my skills, not”—I gesture between us—“this.”

He steps closer, those eyes searching mine. He tosses my comment back at me, the one I said to him in the interview, but he changes one word. “I think you’re underestimating your influence.” He lifts a hand, like he’s considering threading my hair through his fingers, but then drops his hand. For some reason, it doesn’t sound like he’s only preaching to me when he says, “You rush to conclusions way too fast. Sometimes there’s more beneath the surface than you realize.”

TWENTY-FIVE | HARLOW

For the longest time, the top of the roster felt untouchable. I never thought I’d see my name creeping toward it. Not that I didn’t believe in myself, but I got in such a repetitive motion getting used to being on the bottom that I thought I’d stay there all season.

Dallas.

Palm Springs.

Madison Square Garden.

Indianapolis.

Each state and event came and went so fast that I could barely keep up. Sure, I haven’t won an event yet, but I’ve come so close that I feel it in my bones. And now that I have Ariat back as my sponsor, I proudly wear their logo on my riding vest. The last two weeks, I’ve made it to the championship round—the last round of the weekend that features the top twelve riders.

Colson placed second, and I placed eighth.

It’s an improvement I can’t be mad about. Progress is progress, and I have to accept it with a smile because it means I’m trying. Pushing myself.

I had a few toss-offs here and there, but my score is steadily jumping my name up in the rankings, and it’s all thanks to the man who I thought thrived on watching my failures.

We still keep our distance at events, but now, our glances are followed by a grin or smirk when we think nobody will notice. I’ve started going out to the bars with them, tagging along with Brian and Dalton. And when the other riders think Colson and I are avoiding each other, they don’t know that we are texting back and forth.

Back at the ranch in Tennessee, things are cozier. We often engage in easy conversations that are almost always marked by more laughter and smiles than not. I help him with daily chores when we’re not training, but most of the time I’m in the practice area working to earn Cosmos’ trust.

We watch movies and spend nights in the hot tub, relaxing our sore muscles. Colson taught me a card game called cribbage that we play over a beer, and he has way too much fun kicking my ass.

I’ve learned he’s competitive at everything.

Lately, I’ve been trying to ignore this festering ache weaving through my ribs and around my stomach like frayed twine. At first, I thought it was nerves about a comeback. I know I’m capable, but then I realized it has nothing to do with riding and everything to do with the man who I might have judged too quickly.

I said things are starting to feel normal, but there’s a thick storm of sexual tension hanging heavy over our heads, ready to break at any moment.

Usually, he wears a shirt around the house—the winter weather helps with that. However, when we get into the hot tub, my eyes lock onto his strong chest, uniquely marked with battle scars from years of riding. Then I follow that beautiful, happy trail and V-line that leads to the place that wets places other than just my mouth. I’ve seen it. When he’s aroused, it’s tough not to notice that package he lugs around.

My vibrator has worked overtime to ensure I stop thinking about jumping the man’s bones, and it has failed me miserably.