Page 20 of Windlass

Angie murmured, “Is my hair in your way?”

“No. You’re fine.”

Meanwhile, the movie’s dialogue, which could have been better, sounded like white noise. Couldn’t Angie feel howrightthis was? Couldn’t she see how easy things could be if she would just . . . what? Stevie didn’t know, precisely, what was stopping Angie. She had theories, and she had her friends’ theories, but as to what actually passed in Angie’s head, she had no idea. She’d give more than was healthy or wise to know what those reasons were. If they were valid, she would respect them, and probably move out so she could move on and continue being Angie’s friend. And if those reasons were the sort Stevie sometimes believed them to be, spined like a porcupine and purely defensive, she would at leastknow.

Each breath brought the smell of Angie’s shampoo, and beneath that the familiar, warm smell of her hair, which Stevie had seen in all stages of washed and unwashed, heavy with salt water, tied up and let down, limp with exhaustion and frizzy with humidity.

She wanted more. It was not enough to be a shoulder. She hated how she took each scrap and treasured it, turning it over and over, looking for meaning that wasn’t there, and yet she couldn’t help it. Angie was here, curled up next to her, trusting Stevie with her sleep.

Beneath the blanket, Angie’s hand found hers and wove their fingers together. Stevie closed her eyes. Who was she kidding—she was helpless against this woman, and worst of all, Angie knew it, which meant therewasmeaning to find later in the darkness of her empty bed as she examined this simple touch from every angle. She ran her thumb over Angie’s knuckles once, just once, then held her hand until Angie’s breathing shifted into sleep.

Chapter Four

Olive slowed to a trot beside Freddie, who bowed his neck in excitement. Stevie admired the flexion even as she was reminded why she preferred Olive’s round, solid build. Freddie was beautiful, especially with Ivy in the saddle. The woman couldride, and Stevie knew Ivy held him back whenever they galloped, holding him to a pace Olive could keep up with. But she loved the way Olive stretched her neck, fully believing she was the fastest horse in the world as her stocky strides ate the ground at a pace that would make any self-respecting thoroughbred whinny with derision.

Ivy laughed, settling in the saddle with a new lightness, and Stevie grinned back. The thrill of speed and momentum was infectious. Rarely did she feel this lucky. Only time spent with Angie rivaled it.

“The only thing I miss about high school,” Ivy said, stroking Freddie’s neck, “is spending the entire summer horseback.”

“More like cleaning stalls.” Stevie thought of Morgan’s family’s farm.

“That goes without saying. Even little rich girls muck stalls now and then.”

“What, no groom?”

“My mom tried to give us one, but my trainer told her no. Best advice he ever gave us, honestly. I knew so many spoiled, bratty horse girls. I could have become one easily.”

“Youwere never a bratty, spoiled horse girl?” Stevie teased.

“Oh, I absolutely was, but I could have beenmuchworse. Now I’m only bratty for Lil.”

When Ivy had first come to Seal Cove, back when she and Lilian were at each other’s throats—in more ways than one—Stevie hadn’t quite known what to make of her. She’d been impressed with her work ethic and animal handling, but was acutely aware that had they met when they were younger, Ivy would probably have ignored her entirely. Those things shouldn’t matter now. And yet, she’d never quite forget the feeling of scrounging through secondhand clothing bins searching for the name brands some of her classmates could afford to wear. Ivy had probably owned ten pairs of such jeans—or more. She opened her mouth to ask about her teenage wardrobe just as Ivy spoke.

“I need a favor.”

“I’m your girl.” Stevie turned to catch a glimpse of Ivy’s expression, which was nervous. Interesting. Ivy rarely projected anything other than confidence, although that was probably half projection of Stevie’s own latent insecurities as much as anything else. She’d always been compared to Ivy’s brand of blond.

“It’s about Lil.”

“I’m . . . sort of your girl. Angie knows her better than I do, but that’s because they read the same romance novels.”

“Her taste is filthy,” Ivy agreed.

“That last one they swapped? Ange read me a little out loud and my Catholic grandmother reached out from the grave to smack me.”

“Are they really into that, though?”

“I think you’re the far better judge of what Lil’s into,” said Stevie.

“Not—not like that. Big romantic gestures.”

“Again, you’re the better judge.”

“She’s hard to read on some things.”

“Her desire for, as that last book put it, ‘the weight of his cock to—’”

“Please spare me the details,” Ivy groaned. “I mean things like does she like flowers.”

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