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The walk back to Emerald City Coffee headquarters will take twenty minutes, time I usually can't spare in my tightly packed schedule. Normally I would have called a car. But today a walk is exactly what I need.

I pull out my phone and earbuds, scrolling to my Sinatra playlist. The algorithm seems to know exactly what I need, queueing up "My Way" as make my way through downtown Seattle. I breathe in the crisp air that smells of saltwater from the nearby sound.

The familiar opening piano notes wash over me as I navigate through the lunchtime crowd. Sinatra's voice—confident, unapologetic, yet somehow wistful—provides the perfect soundtrack to the jumble of thoughts swirling through my mind.

"And now, the end is near..."

My father's face swims into focus. Not the stern, critical mask I'm used to, but the vulnerable, uncertain one he revealed today. For thirty-eight years, I've been trying to impress a manI thought was infallible, only to discover he's been winging it all along, carrying his own father's ghost on his shoulders.

"I've lived a life that's full, I've traveled each and every highway..."

I stop at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. Across the street, a father carries a toddler on his shoulders. The kid has an enormous smile on his little face and he’s giggling at something.

I can do this. I know I can. I’m going to fuck up from time to time but that’s okay. I just have to keep showing up.

Chapter 27

Tess

Ibrush Oliver's gleaming coat, releasing tiny particles of dust that dance in the afternoon sunlight. My hands work with practiced precision, finding all his sweet spots—that place behind his ears where he leans into the brush, the spot along his withers that makes him stretch his neck in appreciation. The familiar rhythm soothes me as much as it does him. Here, in this moment of mindless ritual, I can almost forget that everything in my life is about to change.

Oliver shifts his weight, bumping his muscular shoulder against me. It's gentle, just enough to let me know he's getting impatient.

"I know, I know," I murmur, moving the brush faster. "You want to get to the fun part." His ears flick as he hears my voice.

The stable smells like sweet hay, leather, the sharp tang of horse sweat, and that indefinable earthy scent that I love so much.

"You're going to be clean enough for the Queen herself," I tell Oliver, swapping the harder brush for a softer one as I clean his face. He sighs dramatically, shifting his weight again.

My body feels different today, a slight heaviness in my breasts, an unfamiliar tightness across my lower abdomen. Ateleven weeks pregnant, there's no visible bump yet, but I know my body is changing. I feel it in the way my breeches sit slightly snugger at the waist.

I run my hand down Oliver's sleek neck, remembering our last jumping session several weeks ago, before I knew about the twins. The memory of soaring over fences, that moment of suspension where we were perfectly in sync, brings a lump to my throat.

As soon as I found out I was pregnant I decided I wouldn’t jump him anymore. The risk of falling off is too high now that I'm pregnant.

"What am I going to do with you, hmm?" I ask, moving to brush his belly. Oliver sucks in air, playing his usual game. I poke him gently in the ribs. "Stop that, silly boy."

He exhales and gives me the side-eye that always makes me laugh. It's easy to forget he's an animal when he shows so much personality, so much awareness.

In a few months, I won't be able to ride at all—too awkward, too risky. I'll be benched until well after the twins are born. And Oliver—young, energetic, and in need of consistent work—will be left without a rider.

The thought forms a knot in my chest. He's just hitting his stride, starting to understand what I'm asking of him in the ring. Our partnership is finally clicking after months of patience and training. And now I have to step back just when we're making real progress.

I pick up a hoof pick and begin cleaning his feet, one by one.

"You need someone to keep you fit," I tell him, setting down his last hoof. "Someone who won't let you forget all your training while I'm on maternity leave."

Oliver snorts, as if understanding my predicament.

A teenager might be the answer—someone young enough to be excited about the opportunity, experienced enough to handle his occasional testing.

There's Emily, the trainer's niece, who rides with beautiful soft hands. Or Zack, who has a perfect position and is always asking questions about training methods. Either of them would benefit from regular rides on a horse of Oliver's quality, and he would stay in work.

But it's not just about keeping him exercised. It's about continuing his education, advancing him in his training.

I gently wipe around his eyes with a soft cloth. His lashes are ridiculously long, his gaze intelligent as he watches me work.

"You'd like Emily," I tell him, scratching under his forelock. "She always has mints in her pocket."