Twenty-Three | Colson
Pulling my fingers through my freshly wet hair from my shower, I amble into the kitchen to pull out the casserole I have in the oven.
I have an appetite, but I can’t quite tell if it’s for food or for the woman I should not be fucking thinking about in all the ways I have been since I watched her on that mechanical bull yesterday.
I pride myself on blocking out things when I need to.
But this … this is different.
I keep wondering whether the past that ties Harlow and me together is a live wire, meant to spark just to burn us down, or if it could be kindled into something else.
I refuse to call it friendship. Even thinking the word makes my fists tighten.
However, I know better than anyone that the past doesn’t disappear; it stays with you, smoldering in the depths where the smoke infects everything. It seeps into every part of your life.
As I pull out plates, my eyes keep wandering over to her sprawled out on the couch under a fluffy blanket as the firelight flickers off her soft skin. She has her tablet, clearly scrolling through social media.
Each day that goes by, she looks more at home, infiltrating my life. It’s only normal that I’m reacting to her the way I am, right?
My clear hard-on for her was like an icebreaker between us, and she’s ignoring it like it didn’t happen. I’m as surprised as she is, but instead of wanting to forget about it, I want to push the line with her.
With a career like ours, we’re always testing the edge of control.
“Dinner is ready,” I call out.
Her head perks up above the couch cushion. “Finally.” She tosses the blanket off and stands, stretching out her limbs. “I wanted to sneak a few bites while you were in your room. I’m starving.”
She walks toward me as casually as ever in an oversized T-shirt and sweats with a makeup-free face and a grin that has my heart setting fire in my chest.
I’m starving too, but not for food.
Fuck, I really need to block out these confusing feelings. If I can swallow my fear, I can swallow this, too.
Placing her tablet on the counter, she approaches the fridge and opens it. “Beer?”
“Please,” I respond, cutting the casserole into even slices.
The familiar crack of two bottle caps fills the silence between us. She sets one of the beers beside me and hops up onto the countertop, her legs swaying back and forth as she watches me move about the kitchen with ease.
I have my father to thank for my cooking and barbecuing skills.
He told me when I was younger that life can be unpredictable, and it’s important to at least have some knowledge of ordinary things that you could be thrown into at a moment’s notice—changing a car tire, cooking, fixing a toilet, carpentry, and other things that can prove valuable.
But he also taught me love.
How to forgive.
How to step up when your family’s foundation is crumbling beneath your boots.
I guess neither of us has been very good at the last two things.
Harlow knocks me out of my thoughts. “You know, between this ranch, coaching, your age, and cooking like a pro, you really got this whole dad thing down. You’re just missing the kids.”
I lift my head, raising a brow. “I’m pretty much living with one,” I tease, pushing back the uncomfortable tightness that was pulling at my chest from the thoughts of my own father.
“Damn you.” She laughs, playfully punching me in the shoulder from where she’s sitting, looking all too comfortable in my house—as if she belongs here, and I’m not sure what to think about that. “I’m not that bad.”
Standing to my full height, I set down the knife and start counting on my fingers.
“I drive you places. I cook for you. I clean your bedsheets when I do mine.” Her face floods with color at that one.
I won’t lie—I’ve lifted her sheets to my nose just to breathe in her sugared sunshine scent that wraps around my organs.
“I place your boots neatly under the bench since you like to kick them off and leave them on the entryway carpet.” I can’t help my grin. “Sometimes I feel like I have a kid.”
She bites her lip, looking mischievous. “So then maybe I should call you daddy instead of coach.”
Goddamn. That should not arouse me as much as it does.
I pace toward her to stand in front of her knees. I brace my hands on either side of her, caging her in. There’s no hesitancy in my words. “I prefer coach. I kind of like telling you what to do. You respond so well to my praises, and all I want to do is reward you.”
Harlow leans forward, her lips a hair from mine. A current of desire is vibrating in the small space between us, waiting for the moment to spark into something hotter. “Was you coming in your pants my reward?”
Oh, fuck.
I wasn’t sure she caught that it happened, since she hadn’t mentioned it. Now, I am so goddamn ready to let my control snap and slam my lips to hers just to make sure I’m not the only one confused as hell about this new territory we’ve found ourselves in.
“I didn’t think you noticed.”
Her mouth quirks. “Oh, I noticed,” she whispers against my mouth.
We’re sharing the same breath. Hesitating. Waiting to see if the other will make a move. But just as fast as the fuse between us lit, it’s snuffed out when my phone chimes with a new email.
I step back, finally giving her space and the breath of fresh air we both need as I reach for my phone.
When the screen lights up, the first thing I see is a notification for a new email from Kickin’ Up Dust. Navigating to my email, I click on it, my eyes flying across the screen, my heart nearly slowing to a stop.
Harlow must be watching me because her concerned tone fills the kitchen. “What’s wrong?”
I glance up, my jaw tightening in annoyance. “You should check your email.”
Puzzled, she leans over the counter, reaching for her tablet. When she opens the email and starts reading, I watch in fascination as her expression shifts from curiosity to confusion.
She lowers the device, pulling her lip between her teeth. “Heather and Mark want to interview us when we’re in Dallas for the next event. Together.”