A Photo Finish: Chapter 15

I SMILE as I walk up the steps to my apartment over the barn. It’s been a tiring week. DD had a bout of colic after a bad race, and now Billie and Vaughn are acting super weird around each other. I feel like the kid whose parents are going through a divorce, like I’m tiptoeing around them both. Basically, I’m relieved to be alone in my space for the night.

I chuckle as I walk in the door.

I strip off my sweaty, dust-covered clothes. Everyone thinks horse racing sounds so glamorous. They think enormous hats and mint juleps, not wood shavings in your jeans and dirt under your nails.

I shake my head as I walk naked to the shower.

The response comes out so quickly I don’t even have time to put my phone down.

A smile touches my lips. Poor Butterface and his one-track mind.

I ignore that last message and step into the shower, my mind suddenly fixated on him and his offer. Something that has been taking up more and more space in my head. Something that’s becoming more and more tempting with my total lack of consistent sex life stowed away on this farm.

My hands roam my body, slippery with soap, and I let myself imagine that they’re the hands of the man I’ve talked to every day for almost a year. The first person I talk to in the morning, and the last one I talk to before bed.

That counts for something, right? I may not know him, but I do feel like I trust him. A tiny voice inside my head yells “naive!” but as my palm slides over my breast, and one trails down between my legs, I feel emboldened.

And when I get out of the shower, I grab my phone and snap a photo before I can change my mind.

I’M GOING to kill Cole Harding.

“One more,” he barks at me like I’m the one in the army here.

I’ll definitely kill him—as soon as my arms stop shaking. And as soon as I stop daydreaming about his lips so close to mine. The scrape of his stubble against my cheek. The sheer power of his body as he towered over me that night a week ago.

That’s right. It’s been one week since Cole Harding called me his friend and kissed me on the cheek, and I’m a bumbling mess around the man. One week since I crawled into his bed and held his hand in mine like I had a right to. Every touch, every look, every gentle word, it’s like a slow-motion reel that won’t stop playing through my mind. I’m so far gone, it’s not even funny.

Things were awkward before because we left so much unsaid between us, and it’s awkward now because I can’t stop thinking about banging the guy. Doesn’t help that he’s been nice to me. Like . . . normal nice. He’s still quiet, but he doesn’t grumble so much. He’s even cooked me dinner most evenings this week. Like he wants to take care of me. He said he was sick of watching me eat mac ‘n’ cheese. That I’m an athlete, and I need to treat my body like one.

Which is why I’m here, on a yoga mat in the living room, working out with him.

Riding a horse feels natural, but this does not. This feels like torture. Double-fold torture because it’s obviously physically exhausting, but being this close to him is emotionally exhausting too. Every nerve ending stands at attention. Every time a warm palm lands on my body to position me, goosebumps race out over my arms. My breathing hitches. My stupid cheeks turn pink.

It’s like every part of my body is in a competition with each other to out me as a total goner for the surly soldier who is currently nudging my hip bone with the tips of his fingers.

“Don’t let your core sag. Your lower back will get sore.”

I do the last push up from my knees before flopping down onto the floor, feeling like a beached whale who’s given up on life. Given the choice between moving and death, I choose death. After an entire week of working out with Cole Harding the Supersoldier? I. Choose. Death.

I hear the rumble of his deep chuckle from above me. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?”

“It’s been nice knowing you,” I reply as I pant into the floor.

He laughs again and drops a palm onto the center of my back, rubbing up and down, his hand catching on the strap of my bra.

“Are you sore?”

“Not if I don’t move.”

“Dramatic,” he grumbles as his hand moves again, fingers pressing in and massaging my aching muscles.

“Oh god, yes,” I murmur, resting my chin on my forearms and letting my eyes flutter shut. His hands always feel good on my body, but this? This is ecstasy.

I hear a quiet grunt, but he keeps massaging me. His fingers move to the right places every time. Like he knows exactly which spots to hit.

“Where are you sore?” His voice is thick. It sends a chill down my spine.

“Everywhere.”

“Violet.” He cups one of my elbows and flips me over so I’m flat on my back and forced to look up at him where he kneels beside my vulnerable form. I stare at his broad shoulders and biceps filling out his T-shirt in a way that just isn’t fair. At his throat that bobs as he swallows and looks down at me. At his eyes that are locked on me like I might be his last meal.

Am I imagining the look on his face? The rise and fall of his chest?

“Where are you sore?” he repeats his question.

Transfixed by the sight of him kneeling over me, oozing raw, masculine power, I lick my lips. It’s like a shot to my core. What I wouldn’t give to watch Cole Harding move above me with that look on his face.

“My neck and shoulders,” I squeak out, trying to play it cool and failing miserably.

He leans over me, the sheer width of him casting a shadow over my body as his hands slide across my collarbones and rub at my shoulders, digging in so hard that it almost hurts. An ache that blooms into a burn, that blooms into pure consuming heat.

I close my eyes, not wanting to watch him anymore. Not wanting to see the harsh look on his face though I can still smell him. That faint clove scent mingling with my perspiration and baby powder deodorant. The whoosh of his exhale feels like a cool breeze across my dampened sternum. My yoga shorts and tank top suddenly feel sticky and altogether too tight against my body, like they’re constricting around me and stealing my breath.

I try not to focus on the caress of his hands on my bare skin, the flutter of his fingertips, the overwhelming press of his body looming over mine. But I can’t. Even closing my eyes isn’t working. He’s everywhere. Smothering me, weighing me down, it’s like I’m suddenly being suffocated by him.

I can’t breathe around him.

“Okay, that’s enough!” I push up onto my elbows, breathing hard. “I can’t do this anymore,” I say as I look down over my body, noting the way my nipples have pebbled through my unpadded sports bra.

His eyes follow mine, those gray irises going molten as they scour their way down and land on my breasts. They momentarily flick back up to my lips, causing my tongue to dart out nervously. Any words I could say die in my throat as I peer up at the man I’ve fantasized about for two years who is currently looking at me like he might have the same fantasy.

“Violet.”

“Yeah?” My voice is weak, breathy.

Cole leans closer, inhaling deeply, as his mouth hovers near my throat. “Tell me you don’t want me to touch you.”

My heart stops. Lurches. Freezes. I look up into his eyes, so full of uncertainty and longing. So tortured. So pained.

I search his face. Looking for some clue as to what he really wants me to do here. A hint, a tell, something. But that military training is shining through, so I opt for the truth. “I’m not a very good liar.”

A strangled growl tears free from his chest, right as his head drops down onto my body. I feel the tip of his tongue trail up the center of my sternum, sending a jolt of electricity straight to my core. My vision goes fuzzy, and my head spins. I fall back flat on the mat. Is this really happening right now?

Cole devours me like a man starved—like an expert. His lips dust kisses over each collar bone as the tips of his teeth scrape against my skin, followed by a soothing swipe of his tongue.

“Tell me to stop.” His voice vibrates across my skin, spraying goosebumps out in its wake.

I whimper and run my hands through his thick hair, wanting to keep him close. Wanting him to keep going and never stop. “Cole . . .” I trail one trembling hand down over his neck, fisting his T-shirt at the shoulder and pulling him in.

He slides his hand up to cup the base of my skull as his thumb presses softly to the very top of my throat, holding me like it’s his right. His body looms over mine, mouth moving up toward the hand that grips me. He nips gently just beneath my ear, and I arch up into him, my back coming up off the ground, my nipples rasping across his hard chest—wishing he was laying right over me so that I could grind up into his length again.

“Tell me,” he whispers into my ear.

“Don’t stop,” is my pleading reply.

His teeth trail across the line of my jaw, his lips hovering close to mine. So, so close. I can’t tear my eyes from them. I want to watch this all and commit it to memory.

“What are you doing to me?” I can feel his breath on my lips, smell the mint on his breath. I want to taste it too.

It seems rich, him saying that, when there hasn’t been a day in the last two years where I haven’t thought of him. Where my fingers haven’t itched to log into our chat and ask him an innocuous question or beg him to give me another one of those mind-altering orgasms.

I’ve missed Cole, and I’ve only dreamt of this. His lips on me, his hands roaming freely, while I turn to putty beneath him. I want so much more.

“We need to stop.”

My eyes flash open as his mouth hovers just over mine, soaking up words that make little sense. Inches apart. So close, and yet so far away. He pulls up and sits back on his heels, panting. His hands shake with the strain of holding himself back as he scrubs them across his face.

“Okay,” I huff out. “Why?”

“Because I don’t do this.”

I’m breathing like I just ran a hundred-meter dash. “Do what?”

“Physical contact. Relationships. Any of it.”

My eyebrows knit together. “Like . . . at all? Ever?”

“Not for . . . a long time. Years.” He trails off as he stands, and the enormity of his confession hits me like a wrecking ball. Years? “Not since . . .” He doesn’t need to finish that sentence. I already know he means since Hilary. My throat burns with jealousy. Sad, pathetic jealousy. Such a wasteful and pointless emotion. “I’m sorry,” he adds as he turns to walk away stiffly toward the kitchen.

I stay here on the mat, trying to get my bearings and figure out what the hell just happened. He didn’t seem hung up enough on Hilary to be pining for her to this extent. In fact, he didn’t seem to like her at all. But . . . years?

What the hell am I missing?

MY CAST IS FINALLY OFF. The follow up x-rays were all clear, and the first thing I did after getting that go ahead was march over to Billie’s house and get on DD.

I wanted to gallop.

To feel the wind against my cheeks and have my shirt billow out behind me as I hunch down over a horse’s back. To let the rhythm of his hooves and strong legs move beneath me like the drumbeat that gets stuck in your head. The beat I’ve been marching to since I was a little girl.

I’ve been good. Rule abiding. I stayed off the horses, even though I didn’t want to. God knows there are plenty of riders out there who wouldn’t have. Without Billie and Cole in my face, I probably wouldn’t have either.

So, I went out for a breeze around the practice track. And now I can’t stop grinning. Or wanting to ride. I would get on every horse in that barn all night long if I could. Who cares about Cole Harding licking my chest when there are horses to ride? Who cares about the brush of his stubble or the sound of his ragged breath? Who cares about the fact I let my hands wander in the shower while I recalled it?

Not. Me.

Now I have a good reason to avoid him. I can officially move back into my apartment. I can drive again! My first race back is in a couple of days! I can finally get my career back on track and stop obsessing over a man who is complicated beyond what I’m equipped to handle.

He’s not my project—Pipsqueak is. And I’m determined to get ahead with her as well. I pull my old Volkswagen Golf up to the farmhouse, feeling light for the first time in weeks. Like I have direction. That’s what horses are for me. Purpose. There’s no finish line. It’s never good enough. There’s always more. After each line I cross, I just want to keep pushing harder toward the next one, the next horse, the next win—it’s consuming.

When I step out of the car, Pippy—sweet thing that she is—whinnies her hello at me. I pull my favorite saddle out of the back seat and walk to her fence, slinging it over the top board to rest.

“Hey, sweet girl,” I murmur as she speed walks toward me, her dainty little head swinging with each enthusiastic step.

Once she’s close enough, I glide my hands over her cheek bones, one on each side, and plant a big loud kiss on the tip of her nose. Her soft lips flap around near my neck as she does whatever this is. With most horses, I’d think this might lead to a quick nibble. But not Pipsqueak. With her it almost seems like a gentle kiss.

“You’re a little weirdo, you know that?” I run my hand down her neck to give her withers a quick scratch, right at the base of her mane. She stretches her neck out and twists her head, enjoyment written all over her. “That’s the spot, huh?”

I chuckle at how expressive she is. And as I stand back and take her in, I can’t help but notice how different she’s looking in just a few weeks. She’s shed her spring coat, and as I suspected, is getting that bronze shimmer her coloring lends itself to. I’ve pulled her mane to a perfect straight line down her neck, and she has her first pair of horseshoes on. The farrier had fascinated her. All the smoke, all the noises—none of it phased her.

I can’t tell if she’s goofy or just totally bombproof. She might not have the regular competitive edge we look for in a racehorse. That eye-of-the-tiger vibe. But only time will tell.

Maybe she’s smarter than I’m giving her credit for. Maybe she’s an evil genius. After all, she brought Cole around. He thinks he’s playing it cool, but I’ve seen him. I don’t know what kind of special operator he was, but I think he’s out of practice because I haven’t missed that he throws her a couple flakes of hay every morning before doing some sort of jailyard workout in the driveway with tires and bricks.

I know he keeps a bag of carrots in his truck and gives her one after work every day. It’s no wonder she practically runs to the gate when he pulls up. I’ve even spied him late at night, leaned up against her fence, holding a rubber feed tub full of the omega rich feed I’ve been giving her, stroking her forelock while she chows down.

Basically, the man who swore he doesn’t like horses—and who said he wanted nothing to do with Pippy—is feeding her three times a day. And try as I might to not find it endearing, I do. God, I really do. It makes my chest pinch and my core throb. That little bay filly has softened him up, and I’d be lying if it didn’t almost make me jealous.

Things have been awkward since our last workout. Friendly, but strained. Bordering on sad. The way he looks at me, talks to me . . . it’s different.

I shake my head. I’ve never been boy crazy. Horse crazy, yes. But boy crazy? Nah. And I will not start now. Especially not with one so impossible to break through to.

I turn to grab the saddle and look at her. “What do you say, Pippy? You ready to take your maiden voyage?”

I swear she bobs her head in response, and I roll my eyes as I get to tacking her up. She’s been the easiest horse I’ve ever started, so far. Even at home in Chestnut Springs as a kid, I worked with young horses on my family’s ranch, and not a single horse has ever been as easy as Pipsqueak.

I cinch the girth, and she stands happily in place. She’s not even tied up. Plenty of horses would walk away, but not her.

I’ve spent the last several days laying across her back with my stomach on the saddle so I could easily slide down if things went sideways. But she hasn’t flinched. I think I even noticed her eyes flutter shut one time when I stayed there a bit longer, just to see what she’d do.

Fall asleep is apparently it.

So here I am, sliding the metal bit into her mouth—another thing that didn’t phase her at all—ready to get on an unbroken two-year-old with a freshly healed leg and no one here to help. At the back of my mind, I know it’s not the smartest idea, but it feels right. It feels like my moment to revel in freedom.

The sun is setting, the birds are chirping, and the cool mineral breeze off the river feels refreshing after an unseasonably hot day. I realize I’m happy. Happier than I’ve been in a long time. I have the perfect amount of distance from my dad and brothers—who I love but were smothering me. I have the job I’ve always dreamed of. Friends. My independence. My body. Something I will never take for granted again. Just being able to walk barefoot is such a gift, such a blessing.

I lift my boot into the iron hanging down Pippy’s side, pressing down onto it twice to be sure that she’s prepared for me. And then slowly, so slowly, I lean across her and swing my leg over her back, letting myself sit on the leather seat of the saddle. Her ears flick out to the side, like a little donkey, and I feel her back go slightly tense as I settle into the seat.

But any tension in her is momentary before she turns her head and neck to nibble at the toes of my leather boots. Right back to her goofy, in-your-pocket persona. Like she’s been here and done this before.

Even when the crunching of gravel comes down the driveway, she doesn’t startle or spook. Her head flips back toward the noise, and she watches calmly as Cole’s black truck pulls up to the house.

When he gets out, wearing a suit with the top two buttons of his shirt undone in the most appealing way, I can’t help but admire him. I wish I could crack him open and figure him out. I really need to get back to my own space.

Pipsqueak whinnies, loud and shrill, and then walks to the corner of the pen—not at all concerned with my presence on her back. Simply happy to see the big grump who’s now walking toward us.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he murmurs as he reaches the fence and slides a big palm down her forehead.

I know he’s talking to Pipsqueak, but it doesn’t stop my stomach from doing a flip. He’s like the dad who never wanted the dog but ends up being best friends with it. It’s like Pippy knows he didn’t want her and proved him wrong. She tried extra hard to endear herself to him. To break through that tough exterior.

And it worked.

He looks up at me now, his eyes glowing and something like wonder on his face. “This is new.” His eyes trace down my body, pausing momentarily on my castless right leg. He tips his chin at me in question.

“Got it off today.”

“And you’re already back up on a horse.” It’s a statement, not a question, and his voice goes a little chilly.

“Yup. No fracture means no fracture.”

“Is this the first time you’ve been up on her?”

“Yes.”

He rolls his shoulders back. “Alone?”

“Yes . . .” I say, not liking where he’s going with this.

“Is that your best plan?”

He had to go there, didn’t he? Trying to tell me what to do after I’ve been perfectly careful and patient for the past month. Now I’m supposed to keep acting like I’m injured when I’m not?

“It’s my plan. I don’t require your approval to get on a horse that I’ve been put in charge of.”

One of Pip’s ears flicks back at me, like she can feel the tension, and then she takes a step closer to Cole, dropping her head over the fence and nudging him.

“Violet.”

Agitation courses through me. The way he says my name like I’m a child. Violet. Like just huffing my name with that scowl on his face is actually saying something at all.

“No. Don’t. Don’t Violet me. I don’t need your permission to do this. I have races this weekend. I’m riding in those too. I have a dad and three overprotective brothers. I don’t need another one. You know this. So, get on board, or get out of my way.”

Cole shakes his head at me as he turns stiffly to walk away. I hate that he doesn’t say anything.

I hate that I can’t provoke a reaction out of him when he does nothing but make me react.