I catch a flicker of something in her eyes—not just rivalry, but something deeper. Old wounds. The kind that don't heal easily.
"Rivals, how?" I press, knowing full well Asha loves to dangle information just out of reach.
She turns, blocking the sunlight, her silhouette suddenly sharp against the barn. "All I can say is there's a history that extends deeper than simple business rivalry."
Something Sydney said on one of our last calls comes to mind. She liked talking about my drama because it distracted her from her own. I've been doing my best to avoid drama and be left alone, but that hasn't exactly been working for me. Maybe unraveling what Asha isn't telling me is just the distraction I need to escape the haunting thoughts that plague me this time of year.
"Deal. I'll go to lunch, but if this turns into drama, just remember you caused the storm."
She gives me a cheeky smile. "Good thing I like the rain."
I know Asha well enough to recognize when she's plotting. Her smile isn't just playful—it's strategic. She's up to something; sharing lunch is just the first move in whatever game she is planning. The mystery man…the rival families…it's bait, and I know it, but for the first time in a long time, I'm actually curious, and that's saying something. So, I bite.
I watchAsha's eyes scour the street outside the window of the coffee shop. She insisted we stop in for an afternoon pick-me-up after lunch.
"I know what you're doing."
Her eyes flick to mine and then back to the street. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Pssh…you're stalling. We didn't run into my mystery man after someone accidentally parked at the wrong end of Third Street, forgetting the salad place she loves is at the other end."
"I did forget," she insists, her eyes eagerly darting back out the window.
"Uh-huh, and walking rather than circling the block and parking outside the restaurant wasn't intentional, the same way stopping for coffee at the shop directly across from the local tack and feed supply isn't deliberate."
Her cheeks inflate with air before she lets it trill through her glossy pink lips on the exhale. "Fine. You caught me. I thought for sure if we had a chance of running into whoever this dark-eyed, tall glass of water is, it would be here, but seeing as how you aren't looking, and I haven't seen anyone who remotely fits the height and age, I guess we can go." She picks up her coffee and starts to rise from her chair. "After all, it's only your first week here. We have all summer to find this man."
"This is true," I say, lifting my elbow for her to wrap her arm through mine.
The two of us do not match at all. She carries herself with the quiet confidence of someone who knows she's unforgettable: razor-straight black hair grazing her shoulders, and impossible blue eyes that contrast dramatically, practically glowing against her beautiful dark skin. When she's home, she dresses every bit the role of equestrian royalty that her last name is synonymous with around these parts. And then there's me, dirty blonde hair, brown eyes, and a farmer's tan from alternating between t-shirts and tank tops depending on where I was working and the expected attire. I am the epitome of plain Jane next to her, especially today when our outfits are so contrasting. I'm wearing riding pants, a royal blue short-sleeved polo, and boots, while she's wearing a baby blue Lilly Pulitzer number.
We've just stepped out the door when she stops dead. "Crap, I left my phone on the windowsill. I'll be right back," she says, leaving my side to run back in. It's then that a silhouette exiting the tack shop across the street catches my eye, and that sense of familiarity, the same one I had in the barn, instantly returns. He's wearing a cowboy hat, shading his eyes today, but I don't need to see them to know it's him. Everything else is just as it was. Same muscular shoulders tapering to a trim waist, same fitted clothing, tight but not too tight, only hinting at the shape beneath. But those aren't even the most telling signs that I am, indeed, looking at my mystery man. Instead, it's the way he carries himself. He walks with a deliberate yet relaxed fluidity that looks like confidence, but because I heard him speak, I see arrogance.
I hear the bells on the door of the coffee shop ring as Asha steps out. "Got it." Her eyes immediately track mine. "Oh my god, that's him, isn't it?"
There's a flatness behind her surprised tone that betrays her recognition. Her practiced neutrality tells me he's exactly the guy she expected, and when she takes off across the street, heels clicking against asphalt, eyes fixed forward with predatory focus,uncaring about the blaring horns of oncoming traffic, I know my mystery man is also her rival.
I quickly follow suit, waving at cars and apologizing for her reckless jaywalking on my way. "Are you nuts? You could have gotten yourself killed back there," I scold, catching up to her on the curb.
"I'd say that's a fair assessment," the deep baritone voice that I remember all too well from the stables answers for her.
"Trigger Hale, what were you doing on my property?"
"Good to see the prodigal daughter is back in town, but I don't know what you're talking about."
She crosses her arms. "So you weren't in my stable last Saturday morning before any staff arrived?"
His eyes flick to mine knowingly, and my stomach knots. Hale… Is it possible that those dark eyes feel so familiar because he's related to the one Hale my heart refuses to let go of? Or am I making up more lies to keep myself from moving on? Hale isn't that uncommon of a surname, and London told me his dad was an only child like him. I clench my now sweaty palms. They're not related. This isn't a dream, Laney. There's no ending where you wake up tomorrow, London is back, and this man isn't a replacement. Stop holding onto these lies as though they will become your reality. They won't, and even if they did, he doesn't want you anymore—he made that clear.
Those dark eyes narrow ever so quickly, as though he can sense the internal dilemma the mere mention of his name caused, but before that perception can take root, his eyes are trained on Asha. "Did you see me?"
"As a matter of fact, I did." She raises a perfectly sculpted eyebrow.
"Is that so?" He widens his stance and hooks his thumbs into his pockets. "What was I wearing?"
"Are you serious? Don't act cute. You're not that memorable, and we both know you were there."
"Suit yourself." He shrugs. "I'm not going to stand here and befalsely accused of crimes I didn't commit." Then, he checks the time by grabbing his phone from his back pocket. "If you're looking to start a war"—he steps up to her side—"make sure you have evidence." He throws me a wink before walking around her to his parked Ford truck on the curb.
