Nine | Harlow
Iglide my fork and knife through the massive, fluffy stack of perfection, not taking my eye off the cowboy in front of me. He observes me with an unspoken intensity, making my entire body warm as I dig into my chocolate chip and blueberry pancakes.
My stomach grumbles in excitement as I plop some into my mouth, savoring the sweet and tart combination that bursts on my tongue. To top it all off, the whipped cream has an addictive texture unique to The Pancake House.
Most women would be reluctant to shove forkfuls of food into their mouths sitting in front of a man who is too gorgeous for his own good, but I’m not one of them. And this isn’t a date.
Unfortunately for my mother, I’ve never considered myself a lady, since I don’t like cleaning up dust and dirt. I roll in it.
I had only planned to order a coffee and hear Colson out, but the second I stepped through the doors and was hit with that diner smell of my favorite breakfast place in Ember Ridge, it was game over for my hunger strike.
I haven’t had an appetite since coming home—only eating a few things here and there, so I didn’t completely starve myself.
Now that I think about it, that was an irresponsible decision on my part since I need my strength for the next event this weekend.
Colson’s omelet and home fries sit untouched in front of him.
His unnerving concentration makes me want to bolt out of the diner, where I can scratch off his gaze that always lingers on my skin.
But there’s no way I’m leaving these pancakes behind—not after that first bite and now that I’m finally getting my stomach to stop rebelling.
I place my fork next to my plate, reaching for my coffee. “So,” I start, hoping he’ll finally start talking.
I almost wish he were rambling like he was earlier, so he could get to the point and tell me why we’re both sitting here. But nope. His barriers are back up, and his stoic expression is firmly in place.
Lifting my coffee mug, I take a sip.
“I want to coach you,” he blurts.
I suck in a rapid breath, the scalding hot coffee splattering against the back of my throat and down the wrong pipe. I cough out, wheezing and inhaling tattered breaths as I try pulling myself together while his request causes my brain to malfunction.
Patrons in booths near ours inquisitively scan our table, most of whom I know since Ember Ridge is a relatively small town.
People have been scrutinizing us since we walked in, many of them knowing our history and probably wondering why we’re sitting down and being civil.
Or they’re waiting to see how long it will take until we clash.
I wipe my mouth with my sleeve. “You couldn’t have waited to say that until after I took a sip?” I wrap my palm around the front of my neck. “I think my throat is blistering.”
His eyes roll. “You’re so dramatic.”
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.”
I start throwing excuses out into the universe. “It’s probably not even allowed for another rider to coach another rider,” I say with too much attitude.
“It’s never happened, so how would we know? If you’re that worried about it, I can ask.”
My response is immediate. “Absolutely not. I would never want anyone to find out.”
He seems to mull that over for a second. “Fine. We’d keep it a secret then.”
I conjure up another excuse. “The age is a factor.”
“The other coaches are my age or a little older. So, I don’t see what the problem is,” he says through gritted teeth.
“The problem is us, Colson!”
His gaze bounces between mine. How is he not getting how strange this whole thing is?
Shutting my eyes, I try to calm my demeanor—we are still in public, after all.
When they open, I soften my tone. “Since the very beginning”—back when I was seventeen—“you’ve acted like I was never meant to be in the Pbr.
You’ve been an ass. And here you are, trying to convince me to let you coach me.
Sorry if I’m having trouble processing. Why do you have a change of heart now? ”
Something flashes in his eyes, but I can’t tell what it is. Guilt maybe?
He glides a hand across the back of his neck. “I know.”
“Not to mention, I live here, and you live in Tennessee. You’re not suggesting I move to Tennessee for the next five months to let you coach me until the World Finals in May. That’s ridiculous.”
A sheepish expression transforms his features, and my eyes widen to the point that I think they’ll fall out of my head and into my whipped cream like cherry toppers.
“I was thinking, if you want to, you could stay at my ranch since traveling back and forth would be too hard. And that’s a long time to get a hotel, and short-term rentals would be expensive for a single person in Chattanooga. The house is big enough that we can keep our distance.”
My heart smashes against my ribs. “Colson, this is the longest we’ve been around each other without tearing each other’s heads off, and you think we can … live together?”
He huffs out a frustrated breath. “I just wanted to offer since … you know—” He picks up his mug, sipping his coffee as I gape at him. Since I lost Aaron, I want to say. But I don’t. “I don’t need an answer today.”
This is the same man who told me when I was seventeen at our small-town rodeo, when he was a guest judge, that I should stick to the women’s rodeo circuit. He told me it may seem tempting to prove I can make it into Pbr, but some risks aren’t worth proving a point.
That has always stuck with me.
He was wrong. Proving that women are just as capable is a big deal to me, and there he was, lighting the fire under my ass because out of all the dicks I encountered competing, he was the biggest.
My head tips back, and I look up at the ceiling.
Oh, Aaron, my sweet, sweet angel, I could really use your advice right now.
Before I met Colson, I would bull ride because I loved the thrill.
Loved the adrenaline.
Loved feeling as untamable as the beast under me.
However, the brutal reality is that I need a coach.
There’s also this part deep down in my core that has me wondering if I lasted the eight seconds last weekend because Colson’s advice was at the forefront of my mind.
We’re already partway through the season, and I don’t see anyone else offering to help me except the infuriating man before me.
A man who happens to be Colson Payne—the one who has always been the fuel to my fire.
If I take him up on his offer, it might escalate past bickering and busted lips. We may be starting a wildfire from which neither of us will escape unscathed.