“Honestly, not a whole lot.” Colt huffs out a chuckle. “But now that I can use my arm a little bit more, I’m trying to keep myself busy. I’m volunteering at the free clinic every other Saturday, and then with school starting back up soon at the high school, I’m going to mentor a rodeo club kid like I didlast year.”
“Oh, what’s that entail?”
“It’s a lot of teaching them things that I’ve learned, taking them under my wing, building their confidence in the arena. Stuff like that,” Colt explains. “I had a mentor when I was in high school, and I credit a lot of my skill from him. He was an amazing role model, and he made me believe achieving my dreams was possible.”
“Surely, you had the support from your dad too,” I murmur. “To help with confidence and see that it was possible.”
Colt flits his gaze over to me. “Yes and no,” he replies. “I’m sure you can understand what it’s like following in a parent’s footsteps. I never wanted people to think I got to where I am today because I rode my father’s coattails. Yes, Max Bishop was a phenomenal bull rider, and yes, he broke records, but I am more than a prodigal son. From the very beginning, I fought tooth and nail to earn my place in the rodeo world, and it was refreshing and motivating to hear somebody in it tell me I had potential when I was in high school.”
Listening to Colt talk so passionately about this world of his has a newfound respect for him blooming inside of me, because the truth is, Idoknow what it’s like following in the footsteps of a successful parent. The medical field may be exponentially different from the rodeo scene, but the fear and the doubt are the same. That voice is always there in the very back of your mind telling you that the only reason you got to where you are is because of who your parents are and not any actual talent or skill. Each success, it’s there to tell you that everyone knows you made it because of who you are, and every failure, it’s there to remind you that the world is watching, and this loss is only proving to them what they already know.
So, on some deeper level, unbeknownst to me, I relate to Colt. I respect him for his passion, and I can’t help but think maybe we aren’t that different, after all.
My dad asks Colt a few more random questions about the rodeo and his experience before announcing that he’s tired and going to lie down for an afternoon nap. Winnie goes with him, the same way she does every single day. Afternoon naps are a regular thing with them, like clockwork. Once my dad disappears into the house, a charged silence settles over Colt and I. Suddenly, my pulse is racing and a tingly type of chill rolls through my veins.
One leg crossed over the other, Colt’s hand is wrapped around his ankle, index finger tapping away at the leather of his boot. It’s a rhythmic sound that almost feels in sync with the beat of my erratic heart. We hold eye contact for a moment, neither of us saying a word. It should feel awkward… but it doesn’t. It’s comfortable.
Rubbing a hand over my mouth, I fully take Colt in. From the dark brown hair peeking out from underneath his backwards hat, to the vibrancy of his emerald eyes, and the short, dark scruff that lines his chiseled jaw. His white Marlboro shirt is form fitting, as are the Wranglers that are tucked into his well-worn brown boots. It would look ridiculous on anybody else, but for Colt, it somehow works. He’s all country, unapologetically so. He’s got a pretty face and a witty personality that seem to make up for the fact that he rarely appears to put any effort into his clothes. He regularly looks like he just got finished mucking out horse stalls, and right now is no exception.
“What are you thinking about over there, Doc?” Colt asks with a devilish smirk, and it’s only then I realize he probably thinks I was checking him out.
Obviously, I wasn’t.
“What you said earlier,” I start, clearing my throat. “About following in your father’s footsteps. I can relate.”
His gaze softens. “Figured you might.”
“It’s a big part of why I decided to take the job on the West Coast,” I admit, surprising myself. “To be somewhere where nobody knew Roger Andino; they only knew me and what I brought to the table. I wasn’t a successful doctor because of who my dad was, but because of my skill and my dedication to medicine.”
“Does he know that?” Colt asks, tipping his chin toward the house.
Blowing out a breath, I say, “Maybe. I’ve never outright told him, but I’m sure he gets it. His father was a physician too.”
“Are you glad you did it?” Colt questions. “Moved away.”
I’ve never really thought about it. “Yeah, I think so,” I finally murmur. “It was good for me, and it showed me a lot.”
“You happy to be home again?”
The question hits me right in the chest. “You know what? I am.”
I meet Colt’s gaze, and I can’t decipher the expression on his face. It makes my pulse kick up all over again. And then he mutters two words that effectively knock me off my axis.
“Me too.”
There’s no cockiness in his words. No flirtation, just warmth.
Swallowing thickly, I hold his stare. This moment is electric, and it’s dangerous territory. It would seem everything with Colt is dangerous territory. A road less traveled that I can’t help but want to veer toward despite the logic trying to steer me toward the correct one.
Colt sits up, patting his hands on top of his thighs. “Well, I better get back,” he announces before rising off the chair, andI do the same.
I do the same, even though I feel disappointed for some reason, wanting him to stay. “Thanks for stopping by, and tell your mom thank you for the treats.”
Smirking, Colt takes a step in my direction, and I freeze. The door to inside the house is right behind me, so it makes sense that he’s coming this way, but something about the wild look in his eyes has me halting. It has me frozen in place. This close to him, I catch his scent and wish I couldn’t. Smelling like leather and sandalwood and something else entirely… something sweet, my mouth waters. Eyes dipping down to my mouth, Colt swipes his tongue across his lips, and I have to actively bite back the groan burying itself in my throat.
“I’ll be sure to tell her you said that,Doc.” The sultry lilt to his tone when he hits me with that nickname sends a shiver down my spine. “You have a nice day.”
With that, he brushes past me, and I don’t bother following. I don’t walk him to the door; I can’t. My breath comes out in harsh pants as I try to slow my heart rate. How does Colt have the ability to rile me up so much by doing so little?
