"Sure thing," he says as he starts making my drink.
"I tell you to leave town, and you show up to the wedding I disinvited you to." London steps up beside me, his proximity so close I feel the softness of his cashmere suit brush against my bare arm, instantly pebbling my skin. Fucker. I know he's aware of precisely what he's doing—delivering cutting remarks while standing so close he envelops all my senses.
"If you thought I'd listen, then I guess you never really knew me at all," I say as the bartender slides my drink across the bar, and I take a slow sip of my Aperol spritz, avoiding the penetrating glare that I know is plastered to the side of my face. He's trying to get a rise out of me, but two can play that game. "Did you bring a date?"
"No." His answer is immediate, sharp, like he's already three moves ahead in whatever game this is. "So, you and my brother, huh? Tell me, did you wear that dress for him tonight?"
I push my tongue into my cheek, letting the silence stretch between us like a taut wire. He wants a reaction. It's why he stood so close. I only wish I knew the root of his digs. Are they genuine disgust for our past, for what we once shared, or is he projecting, and deep down, he hates that he still yearns for me with every fiber of his being? Either way, I won't give him the satisfaction.
"Novel concept…" I finally lift my eyes to meet his, and the moment our gazes lock, I know I've made a mistake. The world tilts. My whole body hums with familiar electricity, my stomach flips like I'm falling, and my stupid, traitorous heart sputters against my ribs. But somehow, through the wreckage of my composure, I find my words again. "I wore it for me."
One minute ago, if he'd asked me the same question with even a hint of warmth, I might have given him the truth. I might have admitted that I chose this dress because it mimics the one I wore to prom with him the night he told me he loved me for the first time, the night we danced under a moonlit sky, the night he promised we'd be together forever. But after his delightful greeting, I refuse to dignify his response. I won't let him believe he still has any influence over me, that I still think about him every day, that I still dream about his hands, his mouth, and his whispered promises in the dark.
The lie sits between us like a loaded gun, waiting to see who flinches first, and then leaning in, close enough that I can smell the hint of mint on his breath, he says, "I don't know what you came here for tonight, but you're in the wrong town, wearing the wrong dress, for the wrong man."
His eyes lock with mine, and for one suspended moment, I see something flicker there—pain, maybe, or regret—before his mask slides back into place. The air thickens with unspoken words, and I can barely breathe. Then he straightens, steps back, and without another word, he walks away. I stare blankly at his vacated spot, my mind still racing to unravel the meaning of his words.
When I turn around, he's gone, and Sydney's headed straight for me. Now, his abrupt departure makes more sense. He has no problem doling out painful comments to me, but he's not ready to face her.
"There you are! I've been looking everywhere for you. So we're drinking?—"
"No." I link my arm through hers. "We have to get out of here."
"Oh, come on." She stomps her foot. "I wanted to shoot daggers at London all night and then wait for the perfect moment to lay into him."
"You can come back and lay into him on your own time," I say, ushering her out of the tent and toward the stables. "I need to get out of here, but first, I need to tell Madison I can't work with her horse."
"How do you know she's in the stables?" Sydney questions as the gravel crunches beneath our feet as we walk across the road splitting the tent and the stables.
"Her bright-red hair is hard to miss. It caught my eye while Trigg asked me to wait for him."
She stops and pulls out her phone. "I'll call the driver. Shit. I don't have a signal." She holds the phone toward the sky. "I'll get the car while you tell Red to pound sand."
"That's fine. I'll meet you when I come out."
I don't need to keep running into London like this. I want to talk. He owes me as much but not like this—not forced. Plus, date or not, I saw the way Madison was looking at him during the wedding. I heard the certainty in her voice when she said she'd handle London earlier. I have nothing against her. She seems nice, or at least she hasn't given me a reason to dislike her aside from the fact that I think she might be hooking up with my ex, but that's enough reason for me not to come back. I don't need the drama.
I'm turning the corner into the barn when I see her; however, she's not alone. I swallow hard, my saliva doing little to stop the acid clawing its way up my throat from the wave of hurt that crashes into me as my eyes fall upon London's form leaning against the stall, her small frame tucked in the tiny space between as he tips her chin up and kisses her softly.
I consider turning on my heel and acting like I was never here, but instead, I boot up and clear my throat. I'm done running from this shit. Does it hurt? Hell, yes. But things can only hurt for as long as I give them the power to. I don't want to give him that power anymore. Their startled eyes find mine, and she quickly untucks herself from his side and wipes the smeared lipstick from her face.
"Sorry to interrupt," I say anxiously, running my hands down my dress. "I saw you come down here and assumed you were alone." London doesn't move from his guilty position. Instead, his eyes slowly roll over to me as though I've just thoroughly inconvenienced him. Asshole. "I just wanted to let you know I can't work with Gypsy this week after all. Mr. Fairfield has two horses coming back from Louisville this week, and since he doesn't like to keep things that don't make him money, my schedule is full. I'm sorry." I give her a tight smile, completely ignoring the penetrating gaze I can feel staring at me over her shoulder, before turning to leave.
"I'll give you ten grand," she rushes out before I can take more than two steps.
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise as I slowly spin around, catching London mid-reaction—his palm pressed against his mouth, no doubt suppressing the same thought running through my mind:That's crazy.
"Madison, I really wish?—"
"And you can come after work," she stammers before rushing to my front. "Please, I really love my horse."
Damn it. One, she pulled the horse card. My job is helping horses, and I'd hate to see an innocent animal be pushed into retirement or worse because I couldn't get past my personal issues. And two, that's a lot of money. I have a mountain of student loans to repay, and at the end of the summer, I'll technically be homeless unless I go back to Willow Creek and the house I never want to step foot in again. That money could be the down payment I need for my own place.
"Please," she begs, pressing her palms together, her eyes pleading with mine. This girl really has no clue who I am. Her ask is genuine. She really wants me to take a look at her horse, and because she has that kind of money to throw at a nobody like me, I can't help but believe I'm her last hope, which means I'm Gypsy's last hope too.
"Fine," I clip out. "Tuesday, five o'clock."
She squeals and claps her hands before throwing her armsaround me. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." Her arms are wrapped around my neck, her hold giving me no other choice but to face London.
