Twenty-One | Harlow
Steel eyes penetrate mine through the darkness.
Shit. Maybe coming back early was a bad idea.
I wasn’t due to return for five more days.
The headlights from the car bounce off that chiseled jaw set in place like stone; the expression making me think Colson isn’t happy about seeing me.
Coming back early wouldn’t have even been a thought if he hadn’t told me he was staying home for the holidays.
Knowing he was spending them alone had something hot festering in my heart that I couldn’t ignore.
The few weeks leading up to my departure for Christmas were busy. Colson and I trained and worked out, and he wrote up a workout plan for me while I was gone that I was a stickler about, to the point that I think I drove my family crazy.
While Colson worked, I sat in the stables and read a book or watched game film of my previous rides, just existing with Cosmos so she might get used to my presence.
A few times before I left, she would come to the stall door and hang her head over.
God, I’m hoping all that progress didn’t slip through my fingers.
I still have plenty of time with her, though, considering tomorrow is the first of the year and World Finals aren’t until May.
Meals and breaks were filled with comfortable conversation about random things like our childhoods or school years.
He told me about his sister, Paisley, and how she is staying with their parents while I’m staying with him.
Maybe others would think it’s weird that a thirty-four-year-old lives with his sister, but a part of me is glad he isn’t completely alone.
However, I can’t shake that something feels off about the way he talks about her.
Colson also talked about what it was like to grow up in a ranching family, but didn’t tell many stories, whereas I would talk about my own sister and what it was like to butt heads with her because she did ballet and I rode bulls.
When I pushed further about his family and Paisley, his silence was deafening.
He was only going to give me the information that he wanted to, so I’d change the subject.
There’s a nagging feeling deep down in my chest that wants to know more—like every bit and piece I get from him is adding to the puzzle that is Colson Payne.
When my family asked me how things were going while I was home, I told them that each passing day feels more comfortable. More natural.
I should’ve known that letting that admission slip through my teeth would’ve ended up with Mel suggestively waggling her brows at me from across the table.
It’s as if the knot of tension between Colson and me is unraveling slowly. It shouldn’t scare the hell out of me to fall into this new level of comfort, but Colson’s always been one of my reasons.
My reason for pushing myself to get into the Pbr.
My reason for working my ass off to resecure a spot after my injury.
My reason for having steel in my blood and an even tougher mindset.
I know keeping that distance at events will protect the shield of armor I’ve built around him since we first met all those years ago. However, I can’t deny that while I was gone, I … missed him. That doesn’t seem like the right word.
I came back to train. Not for him.
Whatever you tell yourself.
We have a few weeks until our next event in Dallas and not lasting eight seconds for either round isn’t a choice.
In this sport, you grab life by the horns, work your ass off, and write your own legends.
While I was back in Arizona, I also couldn’t ignore the ache swirling in my chest like an unpredictable hurricane barreling toward shore. I felt bad that he spent the holidays alone, so I figured I’d book a ticket to get back on New Year’s Eve. Plus, tickets were cheaper.
Walking to the back of the car, I lift my suitcase out of the trunk and drag it across the gravel to the driver’s side window.
Steven, my Uber driver, smiles at me through his salt-and-pepper beard, which is heavy on the salt for being forty-three years young. “Got everything?”
I double-check my belongings. “Yes. Thank you so much for driving me all this way. I know it’s a hike.”
He waves a hand. “Forty-five minutes is nothing.” I make a note to leave him a hefty tip when I get settled in the house. He said he and his wife recently had their third kid, and he’s working extra hours to cover his wife’s maternity leave.
“Have a good night, Miss Harlow. And good luck with the rest of your season.”
I smile. “Thanks. Have a good night, Steven.”
He pulls away, the red glow from his taillights disappearing down the long driveway until they disappear into the forest. When I turn around, Colson is standing in the same spot he was when I arrived, with his hands tucked into his sweatshirt pockets.
That’s all he has on right now? It’s freezing out here, and I’m in a winter coat and a sweatshirt, damn well wishing I had some gloves or a beanie on.
Where I’m from in Arizona, we get snow. So, you can’t blame it on my warm-weather blood or whatever stereotype most people give people from my state. We’re not all living in the scorching areas where people are packed like sweating sardines. No, thank you.
Each step I take feels thunderous as we hold each other’s eyes. His breaths are loud, so audible that they have my heart beating like a drum.
When I step up in front of him, he peers down at me, not saying a word, so I do. “Sorry, I know my early arrival is a surprise. I should’ve told you I was coming back sooner than we planned.”
His gruff voice makes my bones shake. “Why did you?” It sounds like he’s fishing for something below the surface.
I’m not sure I can dig that deep yet. I don’t want to. Don’t want to know what it means if I acknowledge those feelings that are like faint embers softly flickering.
It’s an hour till midnight. “I’ve got to start the year off right. I’d rather train here than at home,” I respond. It’s not a lie, yet I don’t want to admit that I hated thinking of him being here alone.
This time of year can be lonely for some, and I get that sense from him.
He flattens his lips in a line, and I notice the beads of sweat glistening on his forehead beneath the brim of his hat. When my eyes meet his again, the glassy, bloodshot look makes me study him more closely.
He catches me off guard when he sways and mumbles, “I think I’m going to be sick.”
Oh, shit.
His body lurches forward, and on instinct, I release my suitcase handle and grasp his broad shoulders to support his weight.
His cold forehead falls into the crook of my neck.
His head turns, those soft lips barely brushing my skin as his breath glides across the exposed part of my neck.
The glaze on his face made him look like he was burning up, but I was wrong.
So wrong. His ice-cold skin is a shock to my system.
“My God, Colson. You’re freezing!”
His words slur. “I—don’t feel that way.” He keeps sinking further into me.
“How many drinks have you had?”
“Enough.”
His long, dark eyelashes flutter against the slope of my neck, making me tremble. “Colson, we need to get you inside. Can you walk?” I sputter, trying to keep my anxious tone under control.
He releases a throaty hum. Not sure what it means, but I have no time to dissect it. I need to get him inside.
Leaving my bag in the middle of the driveway, I brace his massive body against mine as best I can, struggling to walk us up the porch and into the house.
The entire time, his large body clings to mine as if he’s afraid to let me go.
Panic laces through my bloodstream, grinding the questions rummaging through my head.
Why is he drunk?
Does he always drink this much alone?
Why didn’t I catch the earlier flight that would’ve gotten in this morning instead?
It’s a fight the entire time to guide him to the couch. The second we reach it, he crashes down with the force of freshly cut timber, plummeting to the forest floor. The single lit lamp reflects off the beads of sweat slipping down his temple. He’s sweating profusely now that his body is inside.
Hustling, I fill a glass of water, grab a trash can from the bathroom, a bottle of Advil, and run a washcloth under a warm stream of water.
When I get back, his hands are folded on his stomach, his eyes closed as he faces the ceiling.
I move to sit on the edge of the couch, draping the warm cloth over his forehead.
He jolts in surprise, his fluttering, glassy eyes barely holding mine. I dab at his forehead with the washcloth. “I expected to come back to a random girl in your bed,” I tease. “Not you drunk off your ass.”
I mean, plenty of people get drunk on New Year’s Eve. But not like this.
He stifles a pained chuckle. “You just missed them.”
“Did I?” My voice is laced with mischief to mask how terrified I am seeing him this way. “Shouldn’t say I’m surprised. You have a talent for picking up women after every event.”
He shifts lazily, his tone smooth. “Have I done that this year?”
I reach into my folder of memories, trying to locate a time this year when I saw him leave the arena with a random girl.
There’s got to be at least one. He was known for being the playboy bull rider and lived up to that title my first year in the Pbr.
There is usually an event on Saturday and Sunday, and both nights he would leave with someone new, which is another reason I thought he was an asshole.
He would run through buckle bunnies like they were just something warm to sink into.
I just assumed nothing would’ve changed.
My hand, clutching the washcloth, pauses. “I guess not.”
When I start to lift it off, Colson’s hand snaps upward, his calloused fingers softly wrapping around my wrist to keep me in place. He lets go, letting his thumb gently drift over the backs of my knuckles. “That feels nice,” he mutters.
The wet cloth or touching me? I want to ask, but I hold my tongue.
I don’t stop his movements as he draws circles on the back of my hand.
My eyes are drawn to the leather bracelet on his wrist, but it’s the flower charm that catches my eye as the soft light from the lamp flickers off the metal.
As I look more closely, I notice the charm is attached to a chain braided through the worn leather.
I swallow, tearing my eyes from it, the hard clutches of curiosity digging its claws into my chest. My tone is a whisper. “Why are you drunk, Colson? And why were you outside at this time of night?”
He sighs. “Time goes faster when you can’t remember why you’re lonely, especially this time of year. Demons never rest, dust bunny.”
Something in my chest bursts for him. My heart leaps against my ribs, trying to impale itself with the fragments.
He feels that way? When he said he was spending the holidays here, I assumed it was because he had to keep up with the ranch—not because he had nobody to spend it with.
Why won’t he go spend it with his parents and Paisley?
All these thoughts are running rampant through my mind as I take in the broken man before me with new eyes.
Not because his brokenness defines him, but because he’s way more complex than I thought.
I thought I knew him as the cocky veteran bull rider with an ego to match, but beneath all that, I’m not sure I know him at all.
Who is Colson Payne outside of bull riding?
Who is he outside of our rivalry?
I caress his temple, wiping away a bead of sweat. “I hate seeing you like this. I would’ve stayed if I’d known.” I would have. I love spending the holidays at home, but nobody should ever feel the way he does, even though I sometimes find his presence annoying.
Wow. That’s a change, since it used to be all the time.
Each rotation of his thumb, caressing my hand, winds something unnamed inside me. It seems to calm him, and I won’t lie, it does the same to me.
The muscles in his throat move as he swallows. “Would it make you feel better if I say that I feel a lot less lonely with you around?”
“No,” I breathe. “Because now it has me wondering how wasted you were last year.”
He’s thinking awfully hard about it. “Can’t remember.”
His name off my tongue cuts through the air. “Colson—”
His hand moves, slipping around my hip to drape across the small of my back.
He tugs, pulling my body perched on the edge of the couch closer to be tucked into his side as he stays sprawled out.
I brave a look down, observing as his other hand drifts over my thigh.
I’m wearing leggings, but his touch elicits sparklers that dance across my skin as if I’m wearing nothing.
His fingers glide high, so fucking high up my leg as he reaches that bikini line that has my breath solidifying in my lungs.
He’s not aware of what he’s doing.
He can’t be.
He’s touching me like a lover would when seeking comfort. I can’t bring myself to move, let alone breathe.
When I pull my attention from where we’re connected back to his face, I know without a doubt he’s watching how I react to him. His hand leaves my thigh, his fingers lifting to glide over the end of my long, blonde braid that I tossed together for my flights.
“What I’m going to say might scare you, but I need you to know I mean every word, even if I don’t remember that I said it tomorrow.
” I swallow at the uncomfortable wildfire blazing in my chest. He doesn’t let go of my hair as he watches himself play with the strands with an intense amount of focus, given how intoxicated he is.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen. It’s infuriating.”
Is it possible for words to split your skin? Because I feel them penetrating that shield of armor that he made me build all those years ago at Ember Ridge’s small-town rodeo when I met him.
Noooo. This is so bad.
I’ve been told I’m beautiful—by my parents, past boyfriends, and random men trying to slither into my DMs.
But this …
The way he says it while peering into my damn soul makes the word transform into a completely new meaning.
It blooms into new colors.
Tastes sweeter on the tip of my tongue as I say the word to myself.
I struggle to speak. “I don’t think you know what you’re saying.”
He drops his hand from my hair and removes the arm that was secured around me, but I stay tucked into his side. I tremble at the loss of him. Somehow, it’s as if the room just dropped twenty degrees.
“Whatever you need to tell yourself. Happy New Year, Harlow.” With that, his lashes softly fan out across his soft cheekbones.
Colson’s breathing evens out until he falls asleep right before my eyes, leaving me alone with my thoughts to wonder what the hell just happened and why I’m grasping his words like they mean something.
They don’t.
They can’t.
But if my walls are crumbling, it’s only fitting that the man who made me build them all those years ago is the only one who can tear them down.