Page 4 of Growing Into Love

“Well, I think you’re being a bit of a twit,” Zara says, going back to her baby’s breath. “SEX-Y TEXT! See what he says. It worked for Winter and Virgil.”

I hold up a hand. “Number one, ew. Please don’t talk about my brother and sexting in the same conversation. Number two, Winter and Virgil started their relationship by getting plastered at a hotel bar and having a one-night stand. Not over a steamy text.”

“Okay, new plan—take Jaz out to the Stag, get him plastered, go home with him.”

“I don’t want to have one drunken night with him. I want…everything.”

I sound so pathetic.

“Maybe he wouldn’t be surprised,” Zara says gently.

My heart plunks into my stomach. “Why would you say that?”

“Your face does that thing whenever you’re around him. Or when he texts you. Or when someone mentions his name.”

“My face does not do a thing.”

“Yes, it does.”

“No, it doesn’t,” I insist, as I glance at my phone to see if Jaz has said anything else. He hasn’t. But I feel my expression turn from blindly hopeful to utterly disappointed. “Okay, maybe my face does a thing.” I shove my phone in my pocket. “I should get going. Big day tomorrow and all.”

Tomorrow is my last day of training before Galadriel gets on a plane. Gal is my beautiful, palomino horse—Declan got her for me for my birthday a few years ago and I love her more than anything in the world. I started winning more and more competitions once I began to compete with her. She’s a terrific jumper, made for flying over great heights. She’ll be heading off to America tomorrow. Someone from Windy Acres will be picking her up and I fly out the following day. I’ll be at Windy Acres for a week—I arrive Monday and have a couple of days to prepare before the show starts Thursday. My event is the Grand Prix on Friday, the last day of the Classic. Then there’s some sort of festival on Saturday and we fly back Sunday. I’m hoping I can skip the dumb festival and sneak in a trip to New York City instead. I’ve always dreamed of visiting New York. Delilah’s a stickler though and I don’t want to mention anything non-jumping related until the competition is over—she’ll think it will affect my performance. She’s all about mentality. And I can’t blame her seeing how many times Nigella has fucked with my head.

I’ve got to put Jaz aside and stay focused. If I don’t win this pot, I can’t start the sanctuary. I’ve crunched the numbers and seventy-five grand would be just enough to build a barn on the property and take on at least two horses. Provided I can find the labor, of course, though Autumn said she could help with that. She has connections after renovating the old outbuilding into the inn. She also said the Born to the Land foundation could help—that’s the non-profit she started for Oak Hill. But I want to do this on my own. I want to show my family I’m as capable as my brothers are.

Zara gives me a hug goodbye and I leave the shop. It’s a cloudy, brisk day with a slight drizzle, not unusual for May. I check my phone once again. My fingertips tingle. What if Iwerebold enough to tell Jaz how I feel? What would I say? What would he say?

I shake off the thought. Now’s not the time. I toss my phone on the dash of my car and start the engine. I hope Jaz’ll send me a photo of the puppies once they’re born. Maybe I should ask him to. My eyes flit to the screen before I look away.

I drive down the winding country roads and try to keep my mind focused on the competition. I won’t get a map of the course until the day before the show, but I go over possible jumps in my head, outside lines, the various types of oxers. I need to prepare for anything. Gal has never shied from a jump before, but the Grand Prix is a Level 8 course, which means the jumps will be up to nearly one and half meters high. Or four feet nine inches. I will never understand Americans and the imperial system. Why can’t they use metric like the rest of the world?

I pull down the long drive to Oak Hill and park by the front door of the redbrick farmhouse. The sun is almost set and Richard, one of the farmhands, waves to me as he leaves the barn.

“I’m off,” he says, heading to his own car. “Jamie and I did the evening feeding. We’ll be back first thing tomorrow.”

“Cheers,” I say. “I really appreciate it, Richard.”

“Not a problem, love,” Richard says.

The whole family—Declan, Autumn, Gran, and Gramps—have gone to Scotland for a cow show. Declan wanted to scout a new bull for our Highland herd. Or rather, Declan, Gran, and Gramps are scouting a new bull and Autumn is happily ensconced in some five-star hotel in Edinburgh. She invited me to come with her, but I have my last day of training with Gal tomorrow and a Wright should be watching the farm. I’ve got the whole house to myself which is quite strange. I’m used to the hustle and bustle, Autumn’s chirrupy voice, Declan’s grumbles, Gran’s cooking, the faint whiff of Gramps’ pipe smoke.

Lola, our Australian cattle dog, pads up to me as I enter the kitchen.

“Hey girl,” I say, giving her a scratch before opening the fridge. There’s an open bottle of white wine, and I really shouldn’t because of training but I’m really going to. I can’t get the conversation with Zara out of my head. It’s made me itchy from the inside out. I pour myself a hearty glass, throw the dish of leftover spag bol into the oven to warm, and sit at the kitchen table, flipping through nonsense on my phone until it pings with a new text.

It’s Zara, taking the piss.

SEXY TEXT, she writes in all caps.

No.

Come onnnnnnn.

I don’t know how to sexy text.

Sure you do. Just think about what you want him to do to you and say it. Like, I want your mouth on my tits or something.

I almost spit out my wine.I think it’s worse reading it than hearing you say it.

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