Page 59 of Dashing for Love

Bubbles appear at the bottom of my screen. I jiggle my legs and sip at my coffee.Nowwho’s the impatient one?

JAMES

You’re right. I’m freaking out. I don’t know what to do.

What is it about us that’s so appalling?

It’s not appalling—not at all.

Because we’re not the first people this has happened to.

I know.

Then what is it?

I…crap, Goldie, I don’t know. I need to process all this. Can you give me that?

His answer is a gut punch. But I nod stiffly to myself and answer him.

Didn’t seem like you needed much processing last night.

You can’t tell, but I just flinched over here.

I don’t respond. What am I supposed to say? I’m not going to comfort him. He’s a big boy. A moment later, his message appears.

JAMES

You’re right. I’m the asshole here. I know enough to know that. But I also know that I have no fucking clue how I feel right now.

Sighing, I type back.

DAWN

I’m not going to say “it’s okay,” but I’m also not going to be mad.

Thank you.

I click my phone off and toss it onto the couch with a thud, then slide down until I’m half off the thing. I’m better than this. I don’t need to be all up in my feels just because a boy isn’t sure if he likes me.

But I am.

And it pisses me off. The whole thing pisses me off. I groan loudly. What am I going to do?

Then I sit up. I need to get to work. Today, I’m heading out to Black Stables, a black-owned horse farm a couple of hours north, to do a profile. Not many people know the history of black-owned stables, and I want to change that.

I jump up and get ready, throwing on jeans and comfortable work boots—which most people wouldn’t believe I actually own, but a girl’s gotta be prepared for anything—and finish the outfit with a soft T-shirt and light flannel button-down. I grab my notebook and camera bag and take off.

Two hours later,I’m pulling through gates proudly proclaimingWELCOME TO BLACK STABLES, the letters in bright white against the black metal surrounding them. I pull up to a small house, my Jeep’s tires crunching on the gravel drive. A tall, perilously thin older man steps onto the porch, tipping his worn cowboy hat at me in greeting.

I get out and he lopes down the steps, extending his hand in greeting. “Miss Dash.” He grins, his dark skin crinkling beneath the brim of his hat. “I’m Jack Black—not the actor. Nice to meet you.”

I laugh and shake his hand. “Pretty sure you were named that first, right?”

He nods, his smile broadening. “You catch on fast.”

“Thanks so much for letting me visit,” I say as I pull out my camera. “I remember going to Birmingham for a Veterans Dayparade when I was a kid and seeing horses from your stable in the parade. Blew my mind.”

He chuckles. “The horses, or the black men and women on them?”

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