I frown at my horse. “Thanks, Cricket. You’re so supportive.”
She snorts. I don’t know what to make of that. I don’t speak horse.
“Anyway, where are we headed?” Alessia asks.
“Just to the fields outside of the aristocrat neighborhood,” I reply, grabbing Cricket’s reins and leading her out of the stall. “You can ride with me, or you can saddle up your own horse.”
Alessia’s eyes fly wide. She uncharacteristically stutters as she asks, “Wait—Sad—Saddle up a horse? By myself?”
“Uh…yeah? Is that a problem?”
“No! Not at all!”
I smirk. “The small, squeaky voice and the ghostly white face tell me you’ve never ridden a horse before. Call me a liar.”
“I’ve never even been in the stables before,” Alessia admits.
I drop my head into my hands, groaning. Instead of teasing her, I offer her my hand, gesturing to Cricket.
“Come on. We’re wasting daylight. I’ll teach you to saddle up a horse another time.”
Alessia slaps my hand away and climbs up on Cricket herself. I can’t say I expected any different. Hopping up behind her, I find a comfortable place in the back of the saddle, tap Cricket’s sides, and lead her out of the stables.
As soon as we start descending the hillside path, Alessia tenses up in front of me. She grips the horn of the saddle with white knuckles and leans back until her shoulder blades are touching my chest. She tenses up even more at the contact.
“Alessia, relax. Cricket won’t slip. She’s done hills a million and one times,” I laugh.
“Don’t patronize me,” she snaps.
“Okay. I’ll keep my mouth shut.”
Instead, I wrap an arm around her and pull her against my chest, where she’s completely secure. She tilts her head back to look up at me with a glare, but the gesture only has my heart rate spiking. She’s unbelievably adorable, looking up at me like that, even if she’s mad as hells.
“Don’t. Touch. Me,” she growls.
“You’re sharing a saddle with me. You’re going to have to deal with it,” I remind her.
“Don’t touch me more than we’re already touching!”
“What? You felt unsafe, so I’m making sure you’re completely safe. If we fall, I’ll be your cushion. Happy now?”
Alessia opens her mouth to protest, then shuts it, tilting her head back down to face forward. Her bottom lip sticks out ever so slightly in the most adorable pout I’ve ever seen in my life.
Why is she so cute when she’s angry?!
I hate this. My heart shouldn’t be soaring in the clouds right now. Alessia is the woman who’s ruined my life of solitude, peace, and quiet with a humiliating round of sparring. Right after that sparring match, though, I’m taking her on a date of my own accord, obsessing over every freckle on her face like it’s my destiny to memorize it. I forget about our arrangement altogether as I race toward the sunset with her in my arms.
This is the sappiest romance scene I’ve ever heard of. This is the type of book I’d toss in the “Ew, romance” pile back at home.
At least, that’s what I would have done before.
Now, I’m starting to understand why people are obsessed with these things. It’s amazing. I can’t look away. My body and mind are working in tandem to spite me, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m helpless to this wild, unrestrained feeling coursing through me like a hurricane racing through a seaside village.
How have I never felt this before? Why has no woman made me feel this way? Why does a back-talking, angry, righteous woman have to come storming into my life, take all my time, and make me feel happy about it? Shouldn’t this make me miserable?
Even by the time we stop to rest under a lone apple tree at the top of a distant hill, my mind is racing with unanswered questions. Alessia sits at the foot of the tree, her eyes closed as she leans against the bark. I’m transfixed just by the sight of her resting. She’s doing nothing, and I’m still obsessed.
What am I doing?
