Twenty-Four | Harlow
Iblow out a nervous breath, scanning myself in the standing mirror. Turning and glancing over my shoulder, I admire the way the new jeans I bought while I was home for the holidays hug my hips and thighs, tapering to the flare that makes my legs look longer.
We should’ve canceled, or better yet, come up with an excuse, but it’s too late to back out now.
When Colson opened the email from Kickin’ Up Dust, I knew something was wrong by how his shoulders tautened and annoyed lines creased his forehead. Then I read it, and my stomach dropped. We’ve both interviewed with Mark and Heather, but never together.
Then we had a momentary lapse of judgment after having a few beers that night in the hot tub, and we thought maybe it wouldn’t be too bad.
So, we both said yes, and now here we are in Dallas, the day before the next event starts, and for some reason I feel like jumping out the twenty-seventh-story window.
Of course, we formed a game plan, deciding to stick with the competitiveness that ties us together.
Even the breaths between us have always contained this sharp edge we’ve never been able to dull.
Well, not until he started coaching me, and whatever we were before is muddying into something that is unfamiliar.
I tuck my rogue bra strap under the sleeve of the square-neck, hot pink, long-sleeved shirt I chose for today. I’ve got my boots and hat on, my long hair perfectly curled, and minimal makeup perfected. I look like a country Barbie, and I’m digging it.
A knock sounds at my dressing room door, and my heart jumps into my throat.
This may be a podcast, but they also upload it to YouTube.
It’s nationally known to anyone with a little country running through their veins.
With how much money they are bringing in now, Heather and Mark have gone from a small building a few years ago to a recording studio in a high-rise in Dallas.
Colson luckily has his own dressing room across from mine. I haven’t seen him in the last twelve hours, considering we do what we always do: separate at the airport as soon as the time calls for it, so we arrived at the studio separately.
“Harlow, are you ready?” Heather calls in a sweet, sugary tone.
I turn from the mirror and open the door, coming face-to-face with her flawless form, all done up in her usual power suit with her brown hair in loose waves.
“Ready,” I respond, not at all believing myself.
I follow her down the hallway, my heart smashing against my ribs, the pulse in my neck violent as I struggle to calm myself down.
Truthfully, Colson and I have no idea what the hell we are getting into with this.
My guess is they want to stir the pot between us more and capture our rivalry in a new light.
It’s different to toss us into a conversation with each other than to catch it from dark corners in an arena and through social media posts.
Thank you, Mel.
We reach the end of the hallway, and she stops in front of the door with a Recording in Progress neon sign hanging above. It’s already illuminated, and I pause. When Heather turns to face me with a wicked smile, I glare harder than I should.
“Okay.” She claps her hands. “So, we have decided to do things a little differently and get things rolling early. Since this is live, we want to capture all the authentic feelings between you two.”
Authentic.
That word rolls around in my head. Technically, nothing about this is authentic, considering Colson is my coach now, and I’ve been living with him for the past few months. But they don’t know that. They’ll never know that.
I purse my lips and nod. “A bigger heads up would’ve been nice.”
She shrugs, reaching for the doorknob. A playful grin pulls at her glossed lips, telling me she has been eagerly waiting for this.
Not sharing another word, she opens the door and walks through first, and I follow, my breath whooshing out of my lungs when my eyes instantly land on Colson standing by the couch talking to Mark.
His hands are tucked into his jeans that hug that firm ass in a way I’ve tried not to notice.
It’s difficult not to when I’m forced to watch him strut around the house and property all day.
Doesn’t matter if it’s a pair of shorts, jeans, or those sweatpants that hang low on his hips; he is infuriatingly a work of art, and I can’t help but foolishly admire him.
He’s wearing an army-green button-down tucked into his pants, adorned with that coveted buckle he won last season. Today he went with a black cowboy hat and boots.
I’m a girl, so I notice his wardrobe. For obvious reasons, I haven’t seen this man’s closet, but with the several hats, buckles, and different boots I’ve seen him wear, I’m betting his closet looks like Mia’s from The Princess Diaries, except instead it’s a cowboy’s haven.
I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s as immaculate as that one is, with all his buckles and boots neatly organized.
When those turquoise eyes settle on me, my tongue disintegrates into sand.
For some reason, whenever we separate for events and then see each other again, a swarm of sharp-winged butterflies flutter chaotically in my stomach and bat around until I’m forced to ignore them.
His gaze rakes over me slowly, like he’s taking his sweet goddamn time to memorize everything about me.
I do the same to him.
When a throat clears, we both snap out of whatever trance we are in.
“Colson,” I greet, trying to keep my tone even.
He gives me a curt nod. “Harlow.”
We leave it at that momentarily, eyeing each other. To Mark and Heather, it may look like we are standing off, but the reality lies at the opposite end of the spectrum. This is something far more dangerous.
“Damn, we haven’t even started, and the tension in this room is already thick. It’s enough to suffocate a man.” Mark laughs deeply.
A corner of Colson’s mouth lifts. “Welcome to our world.” Gesturing to the couch opposite Mark and Heather, he says, “Ladies first.”
I roll my eyes. “We’re in the same lane, Payne.”
I’ve been in this room before, but it feels different this time as I take it in.
There is a large window overlooking the skyline, letting in natural light.
Two couches face each other, with two microphones propped up in front of each, a wooden coffee table between them, and a cowhide rug below.
A few cameras and crew are positioned in front of the setup.
“Well, we were going to have you on the same couch, but maybe we should split you two up.” Heather’s eyes fixate on my coach, her voice hopeful. “Maybe I should sit with Colson, so we don’t have any brawls before the event this weekend.”
Moving to the couch, Colson plops down in front of one of the two microphones set up and gives her that smug grin that could instantly have her dropping to her knees. I, on the other hand, try to withhold signs of my irritation, which is definitely not laced with jealousy.
No jealousy here.
None. At. All.
Walking to the opposite end of the couch from him, I sink into the faux leather, propping myself in front of the microphone that’s set up. Put me on the back of a bull, and I’m fine. Sit me in front of a microphone, and I feel like I might throw up.
I swallow down the unease burning my throat, trying to ignore how unsettling this whole situation feels. “It’s fine. I’m sure we can get along for an hour.”
Mark and Heather move to their couch across from us and settle in before hitting us with the first question.
“We were both surprised you agreed to do an episode together with us, considering all that has transpired between you over the last few years.” Mark’s gaze bounces between us.
“Everyone has followed along with this rivalry on and off the dirt, especially as you were working your way back up in the minors, Harlow, trying to make it back in the professional league.”
Colson’s eyes bore into the side of my head, but I keep my focus on the two podcast hosts in front of me.
The lights feel hot against my clammy skin, though I’m not sure if it’s because of the studio lights or the man beside me.
He may be on the opposite end of the couch, but it still feels like Colson is sucking the oxygen out of the air.
Mark continues. “But I think I can speak for everyone when I say that we are all curious how this rivalry started between you two.”
My voice carries a slight shake. “You’ve interviewed Colson countless times. You know where he stands on women competing in the Pbr. Do you really have to ask that question?”
Colson’s deep, throaty laugh fills the space as he turns to face me.
He props his foot on his knee, relaxing in a casual way that I shouldn’t find hot.
“Bull riding is as much of a mental game as it is physical, sweetheart. I find it amusing that my opinion is the one that always seems to knock you off balance.”
“I think you’re overestimating your influence.” When my gaze meets his, his chest rises and falls more heavily, those irises burning with a heat that I want to curl up in.
“Alright, you two, save the fight for the arena.” Heather chuckles, sounding way too entertained.
“Harlow, we’ve seen you struggle at the start of this season, but now, you are starting to ride your way back and are moving up in the rankings, despite your coach’s passing.
Aaron Jackson was an incredible man.” I smile at her compliment, but it’s half-hearted because it still hasn’t sunk in that he’s gone.
“What has training been like as you rein in this newfound focus without a coach?”
Colson shifts beside me as I consider my answer.
“I won’t sugarcoat it; it’s been hard as hell.
Aaron Jackson was a brilliant athlete and saw something in me that other coaches overlooked.
But sometimes, when everything we’ve known crumbles, you have no choice but to adapt and get used to the new terrain.
All I’ll say is that I’ve opened myself up to accepting help in a way I probably would’ve never entertained before. ”
It may be quiet, but I still hear Colson’s blunt exhale cut through the space.
“And what about you, Colson?” Mark’s attention shifts to him. “There’s still half a season left, and you’re already staying steady at the top of the ranks. Do you think you’ll see Harlow up there with you?”
I turn toward him with a curious brow raised. Now this is a question where I am interested in hearing the answer.
He smirks, but there is a deeper meaning mingling with his words. “I’ve learned she’s full of surprises. As you said, there is a lot of the season left, and I don’t think I can count her out yet.”
I flatten my lips to hide my smile, clinging to those words hard enough that the rest of the interview flies by in a blur, the rest of the conversation flowing about our last few events and predictions for the season.
Each minute that went by, my chest felt tighter, my body responding strangely to acting like we are just … rivals and nothing more.
I’m not sure what we are now, but whatever we are is far beyond competition. I know he feels it, too, after our training session with the mechanical bull, when he didn’t try to hide his attraction toward me.
I’ve ridden a lot of mechanical beasts in my life, but that other day in the barn with Colson …
it’s never felt like that. Like I was doing the real thing—the wood beams, panels, and stacks of hay blurring into a dirt arena, the machine pure muscle pulsing beneath me instead of wires and a metal frame.
It was alive.
I was alive.
And then, I, Harlow Hartt, made the cocky and brooding Colson Payne come in his Wranglers.
It’s oddly empowering. He thought I didn’t notice, but I haven’t been able to get those mental images out of my head as his beautiful frame solidified before he grunted. The way his eyes slammed closed as pleasure wracked his body. The outline of his massive cock as it strained against his jeans.
Before I know it, I’m back in my dressing room with my hands braced on the vanity with my head hung between my shoulders. My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I take it out, expecting to see a text from Colson that he’s headed out and will see me later this evening at the arena.
But it’s not.
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. ”