Page 1 of Taming Mika

1

MIKA

The chestnut filly stands in her grooming stall, shifting her weight restlessly. Her burnished coat gleams under Hector’s expert hand, and her dark eyes glint with anticipation.

“How is she today?” I ask, resting my hand on her soft muzzle.

“Full of fire,” Hector replies with a grin, adjusting his oversized cowboy hat.

“That’s our girl,” I murmur, rubbing Fate’s face gently. Unlike the other horses, she isn’t agitated by the barn’s nervous energy. She’s ready to run.

Piper bursts into the barn, her jockey saddle slung over one shoulder. Already dressed for the ride, she looks apologetic. “Sorry I’m late!”

I nod coolly, motioning her toward Fate. “Good. But calm yourself before you mount. I don’t want her feeding off your nerves.”

Piper halts, inhaling deeply before exhaling the tension from her shoulders.

That’s my approach—managing energy. These thoroughbreds are bred for intensity, and their success depends on balance. A trainer can either harness that energy or let it spiral into chaos. I’ve built my career on the former, but it’s a mindset few in this industry share.

“Let’s get her saddled up,” I say, glancing at my watch.

As Hector finishes securing the tack, a lowthwump-thwumpnoise drifts over the barn. My pulse quickens. A helicopter.

“Shit,” I mutter under my breath as the sound grows louder. The mares in the field scatter, their eyes wild with fear. I shove earplugs into Fate’s ears, murmuring reassurances as she tenses against the vibration.

The helicopter lands with infuriating pomp in the estate’s parking lot, its rotors kicking up dust. Moments later, a man steps out. Alfie Bonetti looks exactly how I’d expect—impeccably dressed, with an air of practiced arrogance. His short dark hair is combed back and styled to perfection, his facial hair groomed into an intentional five-o’clock shadow. He looks entirely out of place in a barn. His gold-rimmed aviators give him a model-worthy flair, paired with a sleek iron-gray suit buttoned over a black dress shirt and tie. The dark leather of his dress shoes looks soft and expensive—probably Italian, like the rest of his tailored wardrobe. No doubt they’ll be ruined before he leaves today, and I’m confident he’ll be horrified by the first pile of horse shit he steps in by accident.

He’s probably the most gorgeous man I’ve ever laid eyes on, with class and style and just enough of an edge to make him look dangerous. My heart does a funny flip-flop when I think about how Javier was talking about him this morning, and I wonder just how accurate that touch of danger might be. His sharp hazel eyes lock onto mine, and a smirk spreads across his face. For reasons I can’t place, my stomach twists uncomfortably.

“Miss Harper,” he says smoothly. “Alfie Bonetti. A pleasure to meet you.”

He extends a perfectly manicured hand, as two intimidating men come to a stop several feet behind him. They look for all the world like hulking Men in Black, ready to tear me limb from limb if I so much as smile at their boss the wrong way.

“A pleasure,” I say curtly, and it brings me some small sense of gratification to press my smelly, dirt-covered palm against his, as I give his hand a firm shake.

To his credit, he doesn’t cringe from the natural grit that comes with working at a barn, though I have no doubt he’s made note of the healthy amount of earth beneath my fingernails.

“We were just about to start warming up your mare.” I have to work hard to keep the contempt from my tone, as I leave out the part where she would have been well on her way there if he hadn’t had to make such a grand entrance.

“Great. Shall I join you, then?” he offers, his white-toothed smile brilliant and sickeningly charming.

I shrug. “Unless you need some time to acclimate to the smell.”

He just laughs, the sound carefree, and for no discernable reason, it sends a jolt through my body, making my heart stutter uncomfortably. Turning my attention to Piper in order to distract myself, I gesture for her to mount up. As a group, we head to the warmup ring.

Despite the fact that I’m supposed to be showing off Fate’s capabilities, I insist on taking the time to get her ready properly. And either Alfie is entirely clueless about what to expect, or he’s too focused on watching me to think much of the time we spend letting her build up to the final sprint.

“She’s a unique blend of high intensity and quiet,” I explain as Fate takes a lap at an open lope. “That makes her competitive without the usual anxiety that can come with it. Rare for a Thoroughbred. But in my program, we focus on building the foal’s confidence, letting them acclimate to the lifestyle before we ask too much of them competitively. That’s why Fate has only just started racing, even though she’s nearly three. I prefer to take my time to guarantee they’re ready to be as competitive as they want to be.”

“They?” Alfie asks, and though he has yet to remove his sunglasses, I can feel that he’s hardly taken his eyes off of me.

To a certain extent, I get it. If you’re not a horse person, you tend to try and connect with the people who are speaking, and seeing as I’m the one showing him Fate, I’ve done most of the talking. But his constant gaze is unnerving. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end as some instinct inside me warns that I don’t want to be encouraging this man’s attention. It’s too late now. I can feel himwatching me—rather than the horse he’s supposed to be buying—and even if I can’t see his eyes behind the glasses, they roam freely over my curves, as if he’s here to assess my confirmation and see how good of a rideImight be.

“Yes,they, the horses, Mr. Bonetti,” I say, trying to redirect his attention as my heart breaks into a sprint. “I don’t believe that you can force a competitive nature. They have to come by that feeling naturally. And if they don’t have it in them, it’s not worth the damage you’ll do tofrightenthem into winning a few races. The best race horseswantto win. And I believe that, as their people, our energy is best put to use encouraging and educating them.”

Sensing skepticism in his silence, I bristle. It’s not uncommon. Horse racing is a billion-dollar industry, after all. And every wasted race costs the owners money. I’ve been lucky to find the Carvers, who support my ideas and are willing to let me train as I see fit. But that’s in large part because the older couple is done with their competitive years of making money. Now, they’re just in it for fun. They’re retired and usually off vacationing on one exotic beach or another, anyway, so they leave me to my devices. That’s just how I like it.

“You talk about the animals like they’re people with feelings,” Alfie observes.

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