Page 17

“You’re not exactly dressed for a barn,” I tell Agent Samuels. “Just stay out there by the cars. It’ll be too late to do anything anyway if I get bucked off.”

I do my best to keep my calm when he doesn’t budge.

“This is therapy for me. It’s private. Besides, I bet you’d be in real trouble if you lost track of me again,” I say, referring to last week’s gala, even though that’s a bit of a stretch.

Agent Samuels sighs. “I’ll wait here, ma’am.”

I turn, taking in my surroundings, still kind of in shock that I’m about to do what I’m about to do—mount a horse and ride and not have to resort to manual labor to do it. All thanks to my faux fiancé.

I’m not used to the idea of spending money on anything but the absolute necessities. And here Fitz is, overbidding on a package of riding lessons just because he can. Charity or not, it doesn’t sit right with me. Because at the end of it all, it makes me feel like the charity case. I’ve added the amount to the reimbursement list. If he refuses the money, I’ll donate what I owe him to a good cause in his name, which pops up on my phone.

FITZY

I’m getting my ass handed to me today. Need to decompress tomorrow night. You in?

I wrinkle my face in confusion.

Sure.

FITZY

I love that you said sure without even knowing what I mean.

I know you Fitzy, so it won’t be anything illegal anyway.

Why do you have to wait until tomorrow to decompress?

FITZY

Because I’ll still be getting my ass handed to me tonight.

“Can I help you?”

I look up. A woman exits the round pen, leading a gorgeous spotted horse. The beauty of the animal takes my breath away the closer it gets as she crosses the grass. I’m entranced by the specks of dark brown against his lighter, creamy-white coat. It’s as if a painter flicked a brush and accidentally created a masterpiece.

“Do you need some help?”

I jolt. “I’m so sorry. She’s just so beautiful, and… I’m Parker.”

I hold my hand out—not to shake hers—giving my palm to the horse first. Some might think it’s rude. But those people aren’t horse people.

She laughs. “This beautiful girl is Freckles. And I’m Abby.”

I give Freckles one more pat before shaking Abby’s hand.

“An Appaloosa?”

Abby nods. “If you’re the one who spoke with my assistant earlier, then you might not be the amateur you made yourself out to be.”

After spending most of my days while Fitz is off training alone—apart from my very annoying shadow who accompanies me on daily walks all through Boston’s North End—I decided that I can’t handle doing absolutely nothing while I wait until my time on the campaign starts. This morning, I called Willow Run Farm, not expecting to be able to get in right away. No one was happier than me, showing up in jeans and my only pair of boots. My riding gear still hasn’t come from Atlanta.

I tuck a piece of hair behind my ear. “It’s been awhile.” I leave out the part about how my recent time in the stables has been anything but traditional. “But I rode as a kid. I jumped for a bit.”

“I’ll get you set up. Let me just bring this girl to the paddocks.” Abby tips her head toward the barn. “Why don’t you go take a look around? Everyone in stalls right now is pretty fit except for the stallion at the end on your left. He’s a little sour. Go on. I’ll follow in a few.”

With Freckles’s lead in her hand, Abby walks away while I shimmy in place before I try not to look like I’m sprinting toward the main barn at the end of the wide path.

Eight stalls flank each side of the barn, and I don’t know where to begin. But I go to the horse that finds me first, which happens to be the stallion at the end on the left.

I know I won’t ride him, but I can’t help myself.

“Hi, gorgeous.” I stop a few feet away, seeing if he’ll back off.

Gray paints his dark, lower muzzle and the strands of his forelock falling between his ears, telling his age. His large nostrils flare when he snorts out a breath. But it’s not agitated. It’s relaxed, like a sweet sigh. I extend my arm and hold out my palm before I move to let him know I’m coming and give him a chance to back away. He doesn’t.

Now closer, I hold my breath. On both sides of me, hay shifts and crunches beneath other hooves that stomp on the floor. But none of that manages to steal any of my focus.

My palm isn’t quite in the stallion’s face, just close enough that he can reach out if he wants to. I gasp quietly when he pushes his muzzle into my hand.

“Oh,” I whisper, overcome by the touch, by the magnificent but gentle feel of him. “Oh, you don’t seem all that grumpy.” I giggle when he munches against my hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t bring anything. I’ll come better prepared next time.”

But the horse doesn’t mind that I’m not feeding him an apple or carrot. He keeps nuzzling into me, even more when I bring up my free hand, running it up and down.

“Well, someone has a friend. This old guy is usually sulking in the corner.”

I frown because I swear, I can feel it—the way this horse craves touch. I know that feeling all too well. “What’s his name?”

“Midnight.”

Midnight seems to sense my shock before I even freeze. He backs away from the opening of his stall.

“We’ll hitchhike back to my parents’ stable and get on Midnight,” Sarah sings. “He’ll take us all the way down to Georgia. That’s what I named him after. That song. Well, that and he’s black like the dead of night.”

I tilt my head looking at the horse’s tail before staring at Abby, as if expecting to find Sarah hidden beneath her features. But I imagine the two of us—with our dark hair—resemble each other more than either of us do Sarah, and Sarah said her family’s horse farm was on the border of Hampshire County, far from here.

Coincidence , I tell myself.

“You about ready? I was thinking this guy over here might be good for you. He’s a big boy but a total gentle giant.” Abby walks back two stalls and clicks her tongue.

I smile when a chestnut-colored horse sticks his head out of the opening.

But as I help Abby saddle him up, my head keeps drifting back toward Midnight’s stall.

* * *

I smell Fitz—clean and freshly showered—as soon as I enter the apartment, bending to yank off my boots so I don’t track remnants of barn life all over the carpet.

“Hey.”

I grow a little woozy by the time I’ve righted myself. I’m not sure if it’s because I straightened too fast or if it’s the sight before me—Fitz in just a pair of gray sweatpants hanging low on his hips.

He tilts his head to the side, eyeing me curiously, his hair nearly black when wet. “You alright?”

Gawking. You’re gawking , Parker .

The fingers that hang at my side curl. I’ve felt the strength Fitz has built beneath his clothes, but seeing Fitz’s strength quite literally in the flesh hits different. So different I need to look away because I realize my mouth is still kind of open.

Stop. Gawking.

“Everything okay?” he repeats. “Parker?”

I rub my lips together. “You look fine.”

“What?”

I shake my head. “You said you were getting your ass handed to you. I figured that meant you were at the facility.”

“I was. Came home for a bit, but I’ve got to go out in an hour.”

“Where?” I ask.

Fitz lifts a hand, scratching the back of his head. “Foller’s.”

I’d make a face if I wasn’t so distracted by the shape of his semi-flexed bicep.

Stop. Gawking .

“I cheated on you today,” I blurt out. I press my lips together because I’m about to burst out into uncomfortable, awkward laughter like a teenager. But when Fitz and I were teenagers, I never acted like this. Then again, Fitz never looked like this. Or maybe I just never chose to see him this way.

“Oh.” Fitz folds his arms across his chest. The change in stance makes him seem even bigger, bordering on intimidating in the best kind of way. He’s looming awfully close to the red line. “Did you?”

I nod. “Tall, dark, vegetarian,” I say before adding through my grin, “and hung like a horse.”

Fitz tips his head, his combed, wet hair falling to the side. The movement takes with it his confused grin, stretching it on an angle. It must be the high of today—I find it oddly adorable.

“My boyfriend’s name is Bernard.”

“Bernard?”

“He’s Dutch.”

Fitz’s eyes widen dramatically. “Hung like a horse and Dutch. That’s a lot for me to compete against. You couldn’t have gone just a small step up? Did you really need to climb the full ladder?”

I laugh, knowing he’s being a good sport. “He’s a horse, Fitz. A Dutch Warmblood. God, he’s gorgeous. You couldn’t possibly believe I’d cheat on you even fictionally. Who would that be with anyway?”

Fitz shrugs. “I don’t know. Could’ve been a teacher.”

“A teacher?”

“You know.” Fitz waves his hand. “Like a horse teacher.”

I correct him, “A trainer . But rest assured. Just a horse.”

“I figured. The whole big and tall and vegetarian thing kind of made sense when you came home smelling like manure. And”—Fitz approaches lifting a hand to my hair—“the hay here was a good giveaway.”

The playful grin on Fitz’s face, combined with the scent of soap on his bare skin, makes me suddenly super self-conscious of my stench.

“I could use a shower,” I say, stepping around him but then halt in place. The gratitude I have can’t wait for clean skin or hair. So hay and all, I whip around, press up on my toes, and hug him. “I know I smell awful. But thank you. Thank you for this. For everything.”

Smiling against his skin, I squeeze my arms tighter around his neck before I drop back down to flat feet and begin heading to my room. I’m almost to the door when Fitz calls my name, and I turn around.

“You don’t need to thank me. Just do me a favor.”

I don’t have a clue as to what he might ask, but after today—after a pocket of peace in what feels like a sea of chaos—I nod because I owe him more than I’ll ever be able to repay, even with my inheritance.

“Don’t wash that smile off your face,” Fitz tells me. “Happy is a good look on you.”