Page 75 of Growing Into Love

As we get off the shuttle, I see Nigella, talking to some hardy American bloke with a big bushy beard. She laughs in an over-the-top way that tells me this man is an important figure at Windy Acres.

“Cass,” she says, looking surprised. “You’re still here.”

No thanks to her attempts to get me kicked out. I make sure to keep plenty of distance between me and Jaz—no way am I giving her any more ammunition. She probably had her ear pressed against the wall last night, trying to sabotage us. It’s a bit sad, really. She hasn’t got anything better to do than be petty.

I take a measured inhale through my nose and fix a beatific smile on my face.

“Morning Nigella,” I say. “Sleep well?”

“Cass?” the man says. “Are you Cassandra Wright?”

“That’s me.”

He extends a hand. “Pleasure to meet you. I’m Dirk Wilson, the course designer for the Windy Acres Classic.” He hands me a folder. “Here’s the schedule and a map of the course for you. You’ll be able to walk through it with your trainer tomorrow for one hour before the Grand Prix starts. Good luck.”

“Cheers,” I say and open the folder. There are eleven numbered jumps with two combinations—one double and one triple. Which means a total of fourteen jumps. One is clearly marked as a liverpool. That doesn’t bother me—I’ve trained Gal well not to balk at water. But I wonder if there will be anything fluttery to trip her up, ribbons or flowers or some such adornment on the jumps. Walking the course will be crucial—it’s the only way I can see what she sees. It’s a completely different view than being up in the saddle.

I’m going to have to commit this map to memory by tomorrow.

“Think you’ll be able to handle those combinations?” Nigella asks with fake sincerity. “We wouldn’t want you falling off your horse again.”

My nostrils flare, a snappy retort on the tip of my tongue. I take another measured breath and think of the hard length of Jaz’s cock pressed against my thigh this morning.

“I’m not worried,” I say and turn away from her. Jaz grins at me.

I’ve brought some extra apple for Gal to make up for being horrid to her yesterday. Lisa is there, sweeping hay off the floor.

“Lisa, I’m so sorry for snapping yesterday,” I say. “I was angry at Nigella but that’s no excuse to take it out on you.”

“That’s okay,” Lisa says cheerfully. “I get it. Nigella is a real piece of work as my grandma would say.” I feel a sudden pinch of homesickness—my gran would say something similar.

“Did you get the map and schedule?” Lisa asks.

“Yeah. Looks like a tough course. But Gal and I can handle it. Can’t we girl?” I say. Gal blows at me and shakes her mane. “Okay, I deserve that.” I hold out some apple. “Forgiven?”

She noses at my hand then crunches the apple while I run my fingers through her thick forelock. I press my forehead against her cheek, and she gives a little grunt.

“Sorry,” I say softly. Then I look to Jaz. “Shall we go watch some junior classes?”

“Yes,” Jaz says enthusiastically.

We spend the morning watching the juniors in both hunter and show jumping. Some of the riders are very impressive, especially for their ages. Many of the parents have brought handmade signs to encourage their kids. There are stands selling popcorn and lemonade and it feels a bit like we’re at a fair. Jaz and I munch on popcorn and cheer for the riders when they finish their go on the course. I study the Grand Prix map constantly, trying to picture the jumps in my mind.

A group of riders aged eleven to thirteen are up next and there’s a woman sitting beside us, about my age, with thick mahogany hair and green eyes that light up when she sees one of the riders.

“Yeah Gracie!” she shouts. “Woooot!”

A girl who looks just like her but much younger gives her a blank stare and the woman laughs. I chuckle too, remembering how embarrassed I used to get when Declan would cheer too loudly for me at a show when I was a kid. But secretly, I loved it.

“Is that your sister?” I ask the woman.

She beams. “Yeah.”

“She’s got a lovely horse.” The small pinto mare prances around the ring as the riders warm up.

“Thanks,” the woman says. “It’s not hers. We live next door to an animal sanctuary on Long Island. Piglet is one of the rescue horses.”

“Really?” I say. “That’s so cool!”

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