“Hey,” a soft voice says.
It’s Candice.
“What?” I ask, not turning to face her, and continuing my work.
“I wanted to give you your flannel back,” she says, still speaking more softly than normal.
“Just leave it on the stall door,” I respond.
“Okay,” she says, and then goes silent. It takes all my willpower not to turn around and look at her but I’m still too shaken up from last night.
“Are we going to work with Brown Sugar later?” she ventures.
“If you think we should,” I say noncommittally.
I hear her make a noise somewhere in between a scoff and a snort. I whirl around and find her with her arms crossed, and her typical touch-me-and-die look on her face.
“What is that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“What? I didn’t say anything.” She examines her nails, not meeting my eyes. Which I guess I deserve, given that I just tried to carry on a conversation with her with my back turned.
“You scoffed,” I say.
“Well, you gave me a non-answer. Are we training later, or not? Is our deal still on?” Her voice wavers, like she’s really not sure what I might say.
“Why would it be off?”
She looks up from her hands and meets my eyes. Whenever Candice looks right at me, I have to remind myself of the simplefacts I know to be true. One, she hates me. Two, I hate her right back. Three, she’s Beau’s sister. All of those things should counteract the zing of energy I feel between us, but they never do.
“Because of last night,” she says. “You seemed…mad. About something I said.”
“Yeah, I was mad,” I say.
“Explain it to me,” she says. “Explain why.” Her whiskey eyes are wide and searching, like she’s trying to read the answer from my face.
“You can’t just demand that people tell you what they’re feeling.”
“This is why I like horses,” she says, sighing. “They’re easy. I’m kind and patient with them, so they’re kind and patient with me back. But men…men, I don’t get.”
I wish, in that moment, that Candice and I didn’t hate each other as much as we do. Because what she just said about horses is what I’ve always believed. It’s the principal I use when working with Ballantine, and it’s why we normally win. In another life, Candice and I could have been friends.
She looks sad, almost, and vulnerable. Genuinely confused. By her own admission, she hasn’t had positive experiences with men, so I guess she’s predisposed to think the worst of us.
“I’m angry because you assumed I wouldn’t have asked Sarah her name,” I say. “I always ask women their names. And I treat them well.”
“Do you, though?” she asks.
“I treat them the same way they treat me. I don’t lie. I don’t ever promise something I can’t deliver on. I’m not a relationship man, Candice, but I never say that I am.”
“Well, Sarah is definitely a relationship woman,” Candice says. “She always has a boyfriend, and it’s always pretty serious. She won’t be single for long so if you want to?—”
“I don’t want to,” I say quietly. “And Sarah isn’t interested in me anyways.”
“Why not?” Candice cocks her head to the side, assessing me.
“Because I’m a loser. I lost my last event.” I leave it at that.
“Nathan,” Candice starts. “It’s okay not to win all the time. I’m sure you did your best. And there’s no horse as good as Ballantine.”
