Page 35 of The Bourbon Bet
Why is she focused on the numbers? Is she calculating their value, or merely curious why a single man has so many horses?
“Most of them are rescues or retirees that needed a home,” I say, watching her reaction carefully. “Only a handful are actually rideable.”
Her eyes soften, and she moves toward the stall nearest the pasture doors. “Rescues? What happened to them?”
The genuine concern that replaces her initial amazement catches me off guard. This isn’t the reaction of someone tallying up assets. “Various things. Neglect, abuse, some are just old and their owners couldn’t care for them anymore,” I tell her.
The afternoon sun lights her from behind, hugging her curves and heating my blood. I drink in every detail, from her fitted T-shirt to her sexy-as-sin worn jeans and equally loved cowboy boots.
Oh shit. I forgot to ask if she rode Western or English. I call to my stable hand. “John, do we have All-around saddles?”
“Damn. Don’t worry about it,” Rosalia cuts in. “It’s my fault. I should have asked, knowing you all ride English here. But these are the only riding boots I have, since Western has always been my preference.”
Behind me, nails click rapidly on the cement, and before my dog can give his usual overexcited greeting, I say, “Twain, sit.”
The Irish Setter halts next to me, but his tail twitches in obvious glee.
Rosalia laughs. “You said that with such command, I almost sat too.” She bends slightly and scratches behind Twain’s ears. He promptly flops onto his side and then rolls onto his back. She rubs his belly and giggles when he kicks a leg in bliss. My smile grows watching them.
Straightening, her gaze moves to me. She studies me from head to toe, taking in my gray polo shirt, dark navy riding pants, and well-worn paddock boots.
“What?” I ask.
She shrugs. “You look different out of your three-piecesuit. ”
Heat prickles up my neck and I rub the back of it. “Is that a good or bad?”
“As if you don’t know you look good in everything,” she huffs, giving Twain a final pat and standing. “And it isn’t that clothes matter, but what’s underneath that counts.”
No matter what my outside looks like, beneath it lies a Blackstone heart, through and through—cold and cunning. But to keep things light, I quirk a brow and tuck my thumbs in my belt loop. “Are you saying you want to see me naked?” I tease.
Her face flames. “I was referring to your personality.”
“Uh-huh, sure.” Her pretty pink cheeks are adorable.
“New topic,” she begs, her lips twitching and a half-smile escaping. “Please.”
I grin. “As you wish, Buttercup.”
“Quoting a book. A man after my heart.”
“I was referring to the movie version ofThe Princess Bride,” I joke. “And unlike you, my movie comparisons are much kinder. I get Bill and Gru. You get Princess Buttercup.”
“Gru is cool. And he has the Minions.”
John returns with an All-Around saddle. “I’ll get this on Cinnamon.”
“I’m sorry for the trouble, and thank you, John.” Rosalia shuffles her feet. “Do you need help?”
He smiles, shaking his head. “I’ve got it, ma’am.”
“I feel weird just standing here watching him get my horse ready,” she whispers to me.
Her self-sufficiency is so different from my ex-wife’s. It’s a nice change. “Since it’s his job, he and I would feel weirder watching you. Come here.” I lead her to the feed room and grab a bucket of carrots. “Let’s give these to the other horses while we wait.”
We walk over to Cosmo’s stall. “So, you spent your summers here, were they with horses? Or was that in Michigan? You seem to know your way around them.”
She nods, taking a carrot. “Both, but more so here.”
