She sounds so earnest—like a mom telling her kid that she’s proud of them even though they lost their last game. It makes me smile. Not my flirtatious, charming smile. Not the one I use when I’m trying to get into a woman’s pants. But a real, genuine smile.
“Thanks, Candice. That’s real nice.”
The moment flickers between us, soft and gentle. It strikes me then that gaining Candice’s trust would be a thing to marvel at. That she’s rough around the edges and protective of herself, but soft at heart. That someone like her—someone who lost their mother and father when they were just a kid, and then their grandparents—would have to be.
“Should I go grab Brown Sugar from the paddock?” she asks, her voice hopeful.
“Yeah,” I say. “Definitely.”
Two hours later,the truce Candice and I seemed to have brokered is collapsing. Working with Brown Sugar was a mess because she still thinks that she needs to go, go, go as soon as we’re in the ring. Part of me wonders if she can sense the discord between Candice and I, and if that’s what upsets her.
Right now, Candice and I are trying to shoot content for the barn’s social media, and tensions are rising.
“I told you before, Nathan, I’m not going to be in any photos!” she says, crossing her arms and tapping her foot against the ground.
We’re standing in one of the paddocks out back, with Maggie, Brown Sugar, and Ballantine, who are becoming a tight knit trio. Their winter coats are coming in, and for the first time in a while, Bally and I aren’t competing anytime soon so he isn’t clipped.
“And I’m telling you that if you want your account to take off, you need to occasionally post your face,” I tell her, trying to keep calm.
“Why?” she demands, for what feels like the tenth time that hour.
“Look,” I say, pulling out my phone. “Here’s my profile. Have a scroll through it, and compare the posts with my face in them to those without.”
Candice scrunches up her nose, but takes my phone and does as I ask. After a few moments she says, “Nathan, this doesn’t prove anything other than the fact that women think you’re hot.”
“Candice, women don’t justthinkI’m hot. Iamhot,” I say smugly, just to piss her off.
“Hotness is subjective,” she says, waving my phone in the air at me.
“Is it?” I ask. I take a step towards her and she doesn’t back off, but holds her ground. I catch her eye and hold her gaze. And then I hit her with my best smolder, the one that never fails me.
I watch as her pupils slowly dilate, as she becomes magnetized by my stare, falling headfirst into it.
“Completely subjective,” she breathes, her eyes locked onto mine.
And then something strange happens. Something shifts, and suddenly,I’mthe one falling headfirst intoher. I’m the one who can’t look away. Who doesn’t want to. Who wants to jumpstraight into those swirling brown pools and never come up for air.
“Fuck,” I mutter. I lean in and catch a whiff of Candice’s perfume. It’s subtle, and I’ve never noticed it before. It’s pine and citrus and some herb I can’t name. It’s earthy and clean, just like her.
“Nate,” Candice says quietly.
“Call me Nathan,” I say softly back. “I like it when you call me Nathan.” I always pretend to hate it, but I secretly like it. It makes me feel like the man I should be, rather than the perpetual child I feel like I’ve become.
“Okay,” she says, shifting slightly closer to me.
And then the moment is broken by Ballantine, who shoves his muzzle in between us. I didn’t even notice that he was coming over to us, because all I could see was Candice.
“Oh, hi Bally,” Candice says, reaching out and giving him a pat on his muzzle.
While Candice is busy lavishing my horse with attention, I snap a few photos of her. The lighting is perfect as the sun is starting to go down, and the mountains stretch for miles in the background.
“Look,” I say, showing her the phone when she notices what I’m doing. “This is exactly the type of thing you should be posting. Candid photos of you with the horses, to make it seem like you live an idyllic life out here in the wild.”
“But I don’t,” she says. “I mean, I love it here, don’t get me wrong. But there’s nothing idyllic about pinching pennies and working seven days a week.”
“You don’t have a day off?” I ask sharply.
“Not usually, no. There’s too much to do.”
