Page 30 of Growing Into Love

“Did you just make that up?” he asks.

“Nah. Del always says that when I get nervous.”

“Right,” Jaz says, and takes out his phone.

“What are you doing?”

“Writing that down,” he says. He looks at me expectantly. “Any other pearls of wisdom?”

“Make sure I keep my ankles flexed,” I say. “And my hands low to Gal’s neck. My bottom should be close to the saddle when I jump, but not on it.”

“Bottom…close to…saddle,” he mutters, and I can’t help but laugh. He smiles at me, a full, wide smile that makes my heart do a little hopscotch. “And you need to keep your stirrup leathers vertical.”

I cock an eyebrow. “I’m impressed.”

“I’ve tacked up a fair few horses in my time.”

“The hardest part will be the course itself and the other riders,” I say. I shift in my chair and cross my legs. Now that we’re talking about jumping, I start to relax. This is still just Jaz, after all. And like Autumn said, I’m strong, independent, and fabulous. “Nigella looks to be my biggest competitor, unfortunately.”

“You nearly had her at the competition last summer,” Jaz says. “It was the dog leg line before that last jump—I think you could have made it sharper. Shaved off those few extra seconds.”

“You remember that?” I ask.

His cheeks darken a shade, and he shrugs. “You’re a really good jumper.” He gives me a sideways glance. “And Nigella’s a trollop.”

I smile and try to ignore the tingling sensation in my chest. He remembered. He thinks I’m a good jumper.

Oh for fuck’s sake, Cass, you ARE a good jumper and you don’t need a man to tell you that.

I’m pleased Jaz and I have resumed normal conversation. Maybe I won’t need to bring up the text at all. We happily abuse Nigella Bags-Lavisham for the next twenty minutes and then our plane starts boarding. I stand and heave my huge purse over my shoulder, but it slips. Jaz catches it.

“Whoops,” he says, hiking it back onto my shoulder. His hands graze my neck and it’s like a current running across my skin. Our eyes meet and I swear something crackles between us. But then they’re calling our group.

“What’ve you got in that bag?” he asks. “Bricks?”

“I brought a couple of books,” I say. “And water. And some hand lotion. And an extra jumper in case it’s cold on the plane.” I swallow hard. I brought some of Mum’s things too.

We get onto the plane and find our seats. I’ve got the window and Jaz has the middle seat—the aisle seat is taken by a rather fleshy man with a square head, bulbous nose, and ruddy cheeks. He wears a rumpled pinstripe suit and seems like the sort who gives bone-crusher handshakes and drives a midlife crisis car.

I decide to call him Business Ham.

“Evening,” he says to us pompously, getting up so we can take our seats.

I store my bag under the seat in front of me but pull out my jumper first. I’m glad I brought it—it’s chilly in the cabin.

“Sorry,” I say to Jaz as I awkwardly try to put it on without elbowing him in the face.

“Here,” he says, scrunching up the back so I can find the hole for my head. I wriggle into it and he grins at me. “Snug as a bug in a rug.”

I laugh. He smiles so wide his dimple pops. I lick my lips and for the first time, I hope that hedidsee that text. I want him to think about me the way I think about him.

I realize I’m staring at him too long, so I turn to look out the window at the tarmac. I go to put my arm on the armrest and bump his off it.

“Sorry,” I say.

“No, take it,” he says, offering me the armrest.

“No, no, you’re in the middle seat, you should have it.”

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