Page 4 of Taming Mika

Her deadpan expression makes it clear she’s unimpressed.

I chuckle lowly. “So, how long have you worked for the Carvers?”

“Four years,” she replies curtly.

“And how long have you been a trainer?”

“Is this a formal interview?” she quips, her sharp tone unyielding.

I grin. “I thought I made it clear—you’ll be working for me now.”

Mika takes a deep breath, her pace slowing as we step into the barn. At first, I wonder if she’s summoning the patience to deal with me. But soon, I notice her body language shift. The tension thatseemed to coil around her dissipates almost immediately, as if the presence of the horses brings her a sense of calm.

Her serenity is almost infectious. When she draws another slow breath, I instinctively do the same. The familiar scent of alfalfa, dirt, and manure floods my senses, sparking a wave of nostalgia. It’s been years since I paused to appreciate that earthy aroma. The memory of summers spent ringside at equestrian events stirs something inside me—remnants of my mother’s passion, one of the few things my father would step away from business to indulge in.

“I’ve worked in racing stables since I was fourteen,” Mika says, pausing by the first stall. A gray mare stretches her pink-tipped nose over the door, and Mika greets her with gentle strokes. Her touch is calm, practiced—intimate, even. “I’ve done just about every job you can imagine in a barn and worked under several prestigious trainers before the Carvers brought me on.”

There’s a hint of defensiveness in her voice, like she’s steeling herself against any skepticism I might throw her way. But she doesn’t need to. The fact that the Carvers trusted her as a head trainer, despite her youth, says plenty. She can’t be more than twenty-five, yet she exudes competence.

“You were a rider?” I ask.

My question seems to catch her off guard. Her guarded expression softens briefly, revealing a flicker of vulnerability that sparks something unexpected in me—a need to protect her. Mika doesn’t seem like someone who wants, let alone needs, protection. Perhaps that’s why I feel compelled.

“Yes,” she replies. “I still ride occasionally, but not professionally anymore.” A shadow of disappointment flickers across her face before she focuses her attention back on the mare. She whispers something I can’t quite hear, and the horse’s ears flick forward as if responding.

“Why’d you stop?” I press, my curiosity piqued.

For the first time, she smiles. It’s a small, bittersweet curve of her lips. “I’m too tall to be a jockey, Mr. Bonetti.”

Now that she mentions it, she must be at least five-foot-eight—tallfor a woman, though still a good six inches shorter than me. My eyes trail down her long legs, and I imagine her lean frame underneath me before my eyes snap back to her face. She stiffens, sensing the scrutiny, and I resist a smirk.

A soft thrum builds in the distance, and Mika’s expression tightens as the unmistakable sound of my helicopter grows louder. She turns toward the barn door just as I catch the dark silhouette of the chopper approaching.

“I’ll show you back to the house,” she says, her voice clipped.

I follow her out of the barn, Marco and Vincent trailing behind us like silent sentinels. As we step into the open air, the chopper lands gracefully in the gravel lot, its propellers slowing. Nearby, the crunch of tires on loose stones signals the arrival of my lawyer.

“Perfect timing,” I remark, catching Mika’s subtle eye roll. I slide on my aviators and stride toward the Carvers, suppressing a grin.

Salvatore, my pilot, is already at the base of the chopper, helping a white-haired Millie Carver navigate the narrow steps. She’s followed by her husband, Roger, who accepts Salvatore’s assistance with a steadying hand. They make a charming pair, their arms linked as they shuffle toward me, their faces alight with warm smiles.

Behind them emerges a third figure—a clean-shaven Black man in a sharp blue suit. With his poised demeanor and the streaks of gray in his curls, I peg him as the Carvers’ lawyer. They’re clearly taking today’s meeting seriously.

“Mr. and Mrs. Carver,” I say, offering a firm handshake to each of them. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person.”

Millie’s hand is soft, adorned with delicate rings, while Roger’s is gnarled with age but no less firm.

“And this is our attorney, Marcus Mead,” Roger adds.

I shake the lawyer’s hand, nodding politely. “I hope Mika has been helping you familiarize yourself with the property,” Roger continues, casting a fond look in her direction.

“Yes, she’s been quite the—” I glance sideways at Mika, who levels me with a warning look. I suppress a laugh. “Hostess,” I finish smoothly.

“It was my pleasure,” Mika says dryly. Her tone makes it clear the experience was anything but.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she begins, “I’m sure you have important matters to discuss. I’ll return to the horses?—”

“I insist you join us,” I cut in. “After all, you’re the one who inspired my offer.”

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