Page 4 of Ace of Spades
“Casino, you freaking killed it tonight,” I tell the second mare, moving over to my barrel horse’s stall. “But let’s work on ground manners. No more attempting to run little kids over in the future, you nearly gave them a heart attack. This is the big leagues now, you can’t be embarrassing me like that.”
My sorrel mare impatiently bobs her head, digging into her grain as soon as she can reach it.
The third is Blackjack—my newest bay gelding that I use as an alternate in case anything happens to the other two—though I hope that doesn't happen any time soon.
A stall gate clanks a few rows down, Gypsy’s fluffy ears perking up as she seems to hear something before suddenly taking off, flying down the corridor.
“Gypsy!” I yell. “Gypsy, get back here!”
I break into a sprint after her, following her around the corner right as I slam into a wall. Except to my horror, it isn’t a wall, but a hard chest that feels like a bag of bricks.
“Shit,” I mutter as a large hand grabs me by the shoulders, my fingers wrapping around lean biceps as I try to steady myself.
“Might want to watch where you’re going, Sorrels,” a gruff voice says.
My eyes lift of their own volition to find a set of deep green ones assessing me, the same mesmerizing ones from earlier at the bar.
“Weston…” I breathe before catching myself, clearing my throat and pushing away from him. “What are you doing here? I didn’t think you competed in any events that require you to keep horses.”
“Funny story, that actually doesn’t prevent me from bringing horses if I want to. Wild concept, right?”
He appears freshly showered, his dark locks now wet and the cowboy hat replaced by a backwards ball cap, with sweatpants instead of the jeans he was wearing earlier. This close, I catch the faint scent of him—leather and mint, and something like tobacco.
“Besides,” he continues, pulling a pack of cigarettes and a Zippo lighter from the pocket of his jacket and lighting one. “I’m also feeding Chance’s horses. He’s a little bit busy with your friend right now, figured I’d let them have the truck for a bit.”
“Right,” I mutter, wrapping my arms around myself. “Gypsy, let’s go.”
My dog disregards me completely as she continues to run around with who I assumed to be Weston’s dog—a massive brindle dog—instead.
“Gypsy,now,” I try again, mortification washing over me.
“What’s wrong? Scared she might get fleas?” Weston smirks.
I roll my eyes, scoffing under my breath.
“Tell me,” he asks. “Do you always walk around with your nose in the air? No wonder you trip so easily.”
“No, actually. Only when I’m around you.”
“Well, lucky me,” he says, taking another drag of his cigarette.
“Listen, I don’t know what your deal is, but can you just drop it already?” I snap, my control fraying.
“Gladly.”
I arch a brow.
“Once your family leaves Cedar Creek,” he finishes, and I throw my arms in the air in defeat.
“Has anybody ever told you that you’re kind of an ass?”
“Oh, all the time,” he grins, a dimple making an appearance on his chiseled face.
I let out a dry, humorless laugh.
“Gypsy, come,” I hiss, taking a step backward.
As if my dog hadn’t already been enough of the troublemaker tonight, she chooses this exact moment to stand directly behind me, sending me flying backwards as I trip over her, landing on my ass. The cold, wet ground soaks my pajama bottoms, mortification washing over me as I feel my cheeks heat.
