Fourteen | Harlow #2
Colson’s body is pure perfection. He has the kind of tatted biceps you want to grip.
The type of veins in his forearms that you want to trace like lines on a map.
He has that dark dusting of hair that makes you contemplate if the view at the end of the happy trail can take your breath away—and whether what he’s carrying between his legs has that ability, too.
I’ve never wanted to look at him this way, even though I know people fawn over his muscular physique all the time.
He has several Instagram fan accounts, most of them filled with thirst-trap posts.
I wouldn’t be surprised if one row of seats in the arena is specifically reserved for Colson Payne’s buckle bunnies.
I should tear my eyes away, but I’m taking the time to ogle his body now.
It’s right in front of me in all its glory with tanned skin and dark ink embedded into his arms and shoulders.
The tattoos are hard to ignore. I scan his arm sleeves, analyzing the flowers and leaves decorating his freckled skin from years of sun exposure on the ranch.
I’ve always wanted a tattoo. I find them beautifully expressive, but I’m so indecisive that I don’t know what I would get.
He takes a sip of his beer, curving a brow.
Shit. He caught me staring. “I’ve never really seen your tattoos before. Sunflowers?” I break the silence.
He extends an arm and rotates it, inspecting the design. “What? A man can’t have a favorite flower?”
I wet my lips. “It’s just unexpected.”
His steadfast gaze drags across every inch of exposed skin on my chest. My arms. My stomach. The soft swells of my breasts. “Is that a good thing?”
Sinking back into the water, I wade backward until my back hits the edge of the hot tub. I’m not sure what look he just gave me, but I don’t like it. “I haven’t decided yet.”
He pulls his wet fingers through his long strands, slicking his hair back in that effortless way that has the tendons in his arm rippling, sending a different kind of liquid heat rushing to my center.
I float my hands over the surface, feeling the suds burst under my palms. “Are you going to tell me why your favorite flower is a sunflower?”
He shakes his head, the rim of the bottle obstructing the tilt to his mouth. “Nope.”
“What?” I whine. “Why not?”
“Can’t give everything away too soon. Gotta keep things interesting around here. That story is for another time.”
“What if it’s a story that would help me realize maybe you aren’t the biggest asshole in the Pbr and you actually might have a heart under all that ego?”
He laughs, a genuine, throaty laugh that I have never heard spill from his mouth in the way this one does.
It seeps through my ears, a ribbon of warmth wrapping around my arteries.
“Now I’ll never tell you. If I do, I wouldn’t just be your coach and competitor anymore; we’d be moving into friend territory. ”
“Oof. Yeah, you’re right. That would be a catastrophe.” I rest my head against the edge of the hot tub to peer up at the sky dotted with stars between the lights zigzagging above. “I still haven’t gotten used to that. I’m not sure I ever will.”
His voice is low. “What? That we could move into friend territory after this season is over?”
“No,” I say a little too easily. “Getting it through my head that you’re my coach now. It’s just—” I sigh. “This entire situation is crazy, and I’m expecting it to end disastrously.”
When I lift my head, his attention is steadfast. “Well, we’re tolerating each other now.”
My eyes flit between his. “It’s only day one. We’ll see how you feel about me several months from now. If we even make it until then without tearing each other’s heads off.”
Or clothes.
Nope. NO. Can’t even entertain that idea.
He traps his bottom lip between his teeth. I’d blame my shiver on the slight shift in the cold breeze whipping through the air, but it’s the way he’s looking at me, like he can read my mind.
“We’ll start training tomorrow morning at ten.
I have a few things to get done before then, so you can meet me at the small barn I pointed out earlier.
Since we fly out to Tacoma on Friday, we’ll be taking tomorrow easy and working on fundamentals.
” I nod. “After traveling and sleeping all day, you must be hungry.”
My stomach grumbles at the reminder. “Starving.”
He reaches for his towel, propped on the edge. “Lasagna is in the oven. Let’s go get you some food.”
My eyes widen. “You made lasagna? Like, homemade?”
Pulling his legs over the edge, he stands, his hot skin steaming against the chilly air. “There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”
As I get out of the hot tub and follow him inside, I can’t help but feel a swarm of unease assaulting my stomach.
He’s right. Colson may be my coach, but I’ve always considered him a competitor.
A rival who pushes my buttons and drives me headfirst into wanting to prove I can keep up with a man who has been riding in the Pbr for sixteen years.
That I can keep up with all of them.
I don’t have many fears, yet it doesn’t stop a new one from stirring in my chest, like furious clouds gathering to rage and unleash the rain.
This plan to have him coach me is in motion now, but I fear that not even a break in the storm will keep our relationship from shifting into uncharted territory.
And if I don’t view him as a competitor—my rival—I’m worried my purpose won’t be the only thing I’m losing.