He’s going to get trampled, I just know it and it’ll be my fault somehow, because I signed a waiver, but that won’t protect me from the repercussions from whoever this tall, ballsy, beautiful drink of whiskey is, standing in the way of a runaway horse.
He dances aside at the last second, snatches the bridle and reins in sure, quick, powerful hands, and hauls with every ounce of might, using his body weight and sheer fearlessness to wrench Tinkerbell’s head around to one side, forcing her to turn, heels skittering and scrabbling and skidding, churning clods of dirt and grass into the air, spraying us with sprinkles of soil and blades of shredded grass.
And, just like that, Tinkerbell stops, chest heaving between my shaking, trembling thighs. Snorting. Panting. Shaking her head, as if to clear it of whatever madness had possessed her.
Slowly, shakily, I push myself upright, still clutching the saddle horn in a death grip, and swallow past the hot dry lump in my throat.
I look down and I see the hand holding the bridle—thick, weathered, scarred, leathery, strong, more like wood and granite and leather than flesh and bone. I follow the hand to a bare forearm, lightly dusted with fine blond hairs, coated in sweat and dust, corded with thick ropes of muscle. Beyond that is a bicep like none I’ve ever seen. Rangy and thick, corded and leathery and hard as the mountain rock. Not bodybuilder bulgy, but rather lean and hard with the power of a man used to…well, hauling runaway horses to a stop with his bare freaking hands, that’s what.
And those shoulders, which I’d noticed even on the back of a bolting horse. Wide, rounded, massive, even underneath a dirty gray T-shirt tucked behind one of those big buckles ranch people seem so fond of.
Oh. My. God.
Chiseled jawline, furred with a thick blond scruff. Cheekbones hewed from the same granite as his hands and shoulders and jawline. And those eyes…
Holy hell, those fucking eyes.
Blue as Lake Tahoe in the glittering sun of summer. Blue as the Aegean Sea.
The bluest, most piercing, most beautiful eyes I’ve ever seen in my life.
Staring up at me.
Staringintome.
I know, without a shadow of doubt, without having to be told or introduced, that this is Will Auden.
He’s the most incredibly beautiful, masculine, powerful man I’ve ever seen…
And he’spissed.
6
“Who the hell are you?” he demands in a voice that’s a cross between the snap and growl of thunder, and the raging snarl of an angry mountain lion.
It’s still hard to breathe. “Brooklyn,” I manage. “Brooklyn Bellanger.”
“Better question is,whatthe hell are doing here?”
“I came to meet with you—you are William Auden, I presume.” I sit up straight in the saddle; force myself to breathe normally, and to act composed when I’m anything but composed.
He eyes me, a thorough looking over from head to toe, taking in my hair, my makeup, my necklace—a single massive teardrop pearl pendant on a gold chain which belonged to my great-grandmother—my now dirty and rumpled dove-gray Tom Ford silk power pantsuit, my blood orange Louboutin heels…
He sees far more than my mere clothing, however—he seesme. I look like my mother, with my father’s eyes and temperament: Five-six and a half in my bare feet, with auburn hair that has a tendency to look red in the sun, with shades of brown and streaks of blonde. The shades and streaks and tints in my hair lead most people to assume I dye my hair, since many people spend thousands of dollars to achieve the look, but it's all natural. As is my body, and it’s my build that I know he’s focused on.
My mother is five-five, weighs one-forty on her good days, and has curves no amount of dieting or exercise has ever been able to slim out—even at nearly sixty, she can wear a string bikini and make girls a third of her age jealous, and she prides herself on having never had a touch of plastic surgery, not even skin tightening.
I, to my frequent chagrin, am built like her. I haven’t eaten a refined carbohydrate in years, haven’t had any kind of sugar in even longer, don’t drink soda, rarely drink alcohol, fast intermittently, I’m absolutely obsessive about riding my Peloton three to four days a week as often as possible, and when I can’t ride because I’m traveling I do yoga and go to the hotel weight room for a HIIT workout. Yet, despite all this, I’m just as curvy as my mother.
I know, I know—most women would kill for my body, but I work my ass to the bone to stay as slender as I am—if I stopped working out and eating like a supermodel, I would balloon to epic proportions within hours. Or, weeks, more literally. It’s a point of pride for me that I can go into any luxury designer’s store and buy off the rack, but god, the price I pay in hunger and sweat and all-over soreness is very, very high.
The man still gripping the bridle doesn’t know, and certainly would not care, about any of that, though. All he sees is the fact that my breasts are prominent despite wearing a conservative, restrictive bra, a blouse that flatters my waistline rather than bust, and a suit blazer buttoned to keep things contained. If I were to be standing on my feet, he would be staring at the way my thighs press against the silk of my slacks, the way my buttocks, despite shape-concealing undergarments, bulge out round and taut. Although, to be truthful, I’m pretty proud of my butt—I do a lot of hill rides and squats and lunges to make it look the way it does, and if I love and accept any part of my body, it’s my backside.
Will’s eyes spend a little too long roving my body, and I’m not even dressed to impress.
He never answered my presumption of his identity, but there’s no need: he wears authority like high-end cologne. “Why the hell are you on Tinkerbell?”
“That would be your sister. She told me Tinkerbell would take me straight here, and all I would have to do is stay in the saddle.” I wiggle my butt in the saddle as I say this, aching and sore from the ride.
