Page 169 of Things Left Unsaid

I feel his amusement when he kisses my cheek again. “Lunch.”

That’shispromise.

I hear his cowboy boots clipping against the parquet flooring, and as the door closes with a soft snick, I press the back of my hand to my forehead.

Then, I freeze.

And I have no idea why I do it, none whatsoever, but I stand.

Darting over to the window, I watch him stride over to the stables that they consider ‘private’—where they house their personal stock and where the pregnant mares reside during foaling season.

It’s a short walk, only five minutes from the front door, unlike the regular barn that’s a click away.

I keep my focus locked on him as he heads inside, then a few minutes later, he brings out his ride.

The Houdini horse. Who, according to Callan, Loki sired.

Funny how Loki was a good boy but his son, Fenrir, or Fen for short, is the mischievous one.

That’s when my phone buzzes. Rather than answer, I snag my AirPods from my other pocket, pop them in, and hit connect.

“You’ll never guess what Phill did across the hall,” is Tee’s greeting.

“He thinks you’re cute so… he tried to ask you out.”

Her harrumph tells me I’m spot on. But I’m too distracted to gloat because I start drooling when Colton mounts Fen.

His butt in those jeans—my god.

This definitely isn’t the first time I’ve seen him ride but it might as well be for all the punch it packs to my ovaries.

“What are you ogling? Or should that be who? Have you finally decided your husband can stop the tingle in your?—”

“Stop calling my clitoris a dingle! I’m just admiring his skill bareback.”

“That had better be a euphemism for something else,” she grouses, making me smile.

“Are you going to go out with Phill?”

“He stinks.”

“He doesn’t.”

“He does!”

“It’s only motor oil. I love a man who can get down and dirty with anything mechanical.” Just like my husband. “Plus, free engine checks for the win?—”

“Neither of us owns a car.”

“That’s not the point! The point is if youdidhave one, he could be relied upon to keep the hunk of junk roadworthy.”

“But he stinks. And your lack of disagreement says you know I’m right.”

“He does smell like the shop,” I concede.

“His nails are black.”

I grunt.

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