THE THING ABOUT POLO IS, I DON’T KNOW ANYTHING ABOUT POLO.
Standing under a long white tent, I stare with fascination at the horses galloping around the pitch. With every crack of a mallet, I struggle to keep track of the ball. Like golf, I don’t know how anyone follows the damn thing. All I see are hooves and sticks and flying tufts of dirt and grass. It’s exciting, though. Energetic. Even if I don’t understand the rules or exactly what I’m watching. Celeste tries her best to sum it up for me when she sees my eyes glaze over, explaining it’s not too dissimilar to football, a comparison that makes even less sense until I realize she means soccer.
She was right about the scenery at least. There’s no shortage of hot guys who’ve stepped off the covers of a fashion magazine in their crisp white button-downs, blazers, and perfect Amalfi Coast tans. A lot of tall, gorgeous women on their arms too.
“Who’s that?” I ask, nodding at the raised platform where a small group of spectators watch the match.
“You certainly aim high, don’t you?” She grins at me. “That’s Prince James. The queen’s sister’s son.”
I don’t know what I expected a royal to look like in real life. Not that he should be adorned with medals and sashes or anything fancy, but he just looks so…average. A regular guy in a casual summer suit. Maybe because in England, the monarchy isn’t surrounded by a dozen Secret Service agents in dark suits and sunglasses.
Still, I never thought I’d find myself at the same venue as a member of the royal family. Like it’s a totally normal thing to do.
“I’m surprised he’s showing his face in public,” remarks Yvonne, who stands on the other side of Celeste. Nate was here a moment ago, though we barely said hello before Yvonne sent him off to get her a drink. “Only last week, he was all over the Mail getting into his car with that Alisha woman from Eurovision.”
I lift a brow. “Isn’t he married?”
“Exactly.” Yvonne huffs. “And he had the nerve to deny it like we didn’t all see it with our own eyes. He’s a prick.”
The girls turn their attention back to the match. I attempt to as well, but it isn’t long before my vision once again becomes a blur of horse legs and mallets. I give up. Polo is the sport equivalent of gibberish.
I poke Celeste in the arm. “How are things going with Roberto?”
She slides her sunglasses down and follows as the teams charge past us down the field. “Yeah, good. He travels a lot, so he’s out of town this week. These were his tickets to the match, actually.”
“Thank him for me then. I’m not sure I’m following, but it’s fun.”
“Lee told me about your painting. Any luck identifying the mystery woman?”
“Yes, Abbey.” Yvonne leans in. “I hear you’ve got a secret Tulley. Naughty lot, that family.”
So I keep hearing. But most of the available information I’ve found on the Tulley clan is about its current members. My findings on the Tulleys of the WWII era thus far are limited to the duke and duchess, and there’s very little about their children or extended family.
“I found a small art museum in Rye, where the artist is from,” I tell the girls. “So I’m hoping they’ll have more information about him and maybe his subjects. I’m taking the train out there tomorrow.”
“Nate’s from East Sussex,” Yvonne says as he arrives with her champagne.
He hands her the flute, then drags a hand through his tousled hair. “What’s that?”
“Abbey is hunting an artist in Rye. Weren’t you headed that way to see your mum and dad tomorrow?”
He casts his gaze at me, and I’m suddenly self-conscious. About my outfit, my hair, and whether I’d worn enough sunscreen or turned a hideous shade of cooked while outdoors. The knee-length green dress I’d chosen for today seemed modest when I slipped it on, but when Nate’s dark eyes rest briefly on my bare legs, I suddenly feel like it’s way too short. Nate, meanwhile, manages effortless indifference, somehow pulling off wearing only a fitted T-shirt and jeans as if we’re all ridiculous for trying so hard.
His hair falls across his face. It isn’t eighties-rock-star long but not close-cropped either. Just deliciously messy and curling slightly at his nape. I become obsessed with the way a strand sticks to his eyelashes.
“You want a lift, Abbey?” he asks.
I’m not entirely sure I haven’t hallucinated the offer until Celeste nudges me with her elbow. “Manners, darling.”
I blush. “Yeah, sure.” My tone is all no big deal. I get rides from gorgeous men on the regular. Nothing to see here. “If it’s no bother.”
“Not at all. I’ll pick you up first thing.” He pushes hair out of his eyes, then grabs his phone from his back pocket. “Give me your number. I’ll text you when I’m on my way tomorrow.”
My gaze flicks toward Yvonne, but she’s gone back to watching the match, unfazed that her boyfriend asked for my number. I pose absolutely no threat to her.
She’s got Nate fetching her champagne after all.
“Are you coming too?” I ask her.
The crowd suddenly erupts in cheers as someone apparently scores. Yvonne claps against her glass, careful not to jostle her drink, before glancing over at me.
“No, I’ve things to do,” she says, smiling. “But good luck. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
Okay, yeah, cool. A two-hour ride alone with Nate and his hair. That’s fine. That’s totally fine.
Shit.
I’m up and dressed early Sunday morning when I come downstairs. I received a text from Nate about fifteen minutes ago, informing me he’ll be here in forty minutes. Which gives me another, oh, twenty-five minutes to battle my growing anxiety and hope it doesn’t turn into a full-blown panic attack.
I know this isn’t a date.
But it still sort of feels like one.
Jack is at the counter when I walk into the kitchen. “Morning,” he greets me.
“Morning.” I tentatively shuffle past him toward the pantry for some cereal and pretend he’s not shirtless. That his biceps aren’t rippling as he uses a wooden spoon to mix pancake batter.
It got me rock hard.
Those rough whispered words have been haunting me for more than a week now. They’ve also become the soundtrack to my Hot Jack fantasies, which I like to alternate with my Broody Nate fantasies. The number of orgasms I’ve had while thinking of those two might be a cause for concern.
As I pass him, I notice for the first time a scar on his back. Small and round, with jagged, weblike borders. Almost like a bullet wound.
“What is that?” I demand. “Were you shot?”
He half turns to see what I’m looking at, then glances over his shoulder at the scar, feeling it with his fingers. “That? No. I fell off a four-wheeler my sister was driving. Rolled into a ditch and was impaled on a branch.”
“Wow, seriously?”
“Oh yeah. Now, this one. This one’s from getting shot.” Jack turns sideways to point out a faint mark above his hip. “My mate shot me point-blank with a paintball gun.”
“A paintball did that?” The pink raised area is evidence of the torn skin that was once blown open.
He chuckles. “A hazelnut. He filled the paintball gun with them.”
“A freaking hazelnut?” I’m at a loss. What is it with boys? Why don’t they just freeze each other’s underwear like normal people? “You need new friends, Jackie.”
“I’ll keep that in mind, Abbs. Go on then. Show me yours.”
My heart does a stupid flip. “Um. Pardon me?”
Jack pours out some batter on the griddle before facing me again. “Your scars. I showed you mine. Fair’s fair.”
“I only have one.” Shrugging, I throw my foot up on a stool, roll up my linen pant leg, and point to the pale, thin line just above my knee. “Summer camp. I came in too hot on the zip line and crash-landed. Found a nail poking out of the deck with my leg.”
“Damn.”
“I mean, it’s no hazelnut bullet,” I say with feigned modesty. “But I did have to get a tetanus shot, so…clearly that makes me tougher than you.”
“A tetanus shot? Fuck, that’s sexy.”
“Isn’t it?”
Jack pulls his first pancake off the griddle, then stirs the batter still in the bowl. As he pours out another one, some batter manages to splatter his chest.
“You gonna eat the pancakes or wear them?” I say with a taunting grin.
I grab the dishrag beside the sink to wipe it off. I’m already engaged in the act by the time the message reaches my brain that wiping batter off Jack’s bare chest has a vaguely sexual connotation, but I don’t know how to escape it now as time slows while he watches me.
In the silence, I feel my pulse race in response to some intangible signal. I’m not sure which one of us is breathing hard. I think it’s me. A vivid hallucination of running my hands over his warm flesh flashes in front of my eyes. His muscles quiver under my touch. Either I’m kidding myself, or he feels this thing too.
“Morning, you two,” Lee announces as he and Jamie enter the kitchen.
Jolted from the moment, I drop the rag and step away from Jack. I’m hyperaware of my heartbeat.
“Watch out for that one,” Jack says to the boys, turning back to his pancakes. “She’s no respect for the house rules. Just groped me right out in the open.”
“That so?” Lee arches an eyebrow at me.
“I knew she was trouble,” Jamie says. “The redheads always are.” They have a good laugh at my expense while I go sit with my cereal, hoping my face doesn’t look as red as it feels.
Thankfully, the door buzzes.
Jamie perks up. “We expecting someone?”
Nope, but I am.
“Later, boys.” I drop my bowl in the sink with an eye right at Jack. “I’m heading to Rye with Nate for some research.”
Jack’s gaze narrows, but I’m already strolling out of the kitchen.
“Did she say Nate?” I hear Jamie demand.
I grab my bag from the hallway and slip on my shoes before heading out the door.
Outside, Nate is waiting at the curb. With his motorcycle.
Oh.
I pause on the sidewalk. It isn’t fair, really. The sight of him leaning against the bike. Like, stop, dude. You were already hot. This is just overkill. A girl can only take so much.
“Morning,” he says in that deep voice of his. It’s not quite a smoker’s voice—I’ve yet to see him smoke anything—but there’s a slight rasp to it that makes certain parts of me tingle.
“Morning,” I answer awkwardly.
He hands me a helmet. “Ready?”
Hesitant, I stare at the bike. “My dad would kill me if he knew I was on a motorcycle.”
“Yeah?”
“He’s hated the things ever since a bandmate of his died in a crash a few years ago. Made me promise never to ride one.”
Which is maybe a lot to announce first thing in the morning to a guy doing me a favor.
“I’d never put you in danger,” Nate says softly. “I’m a safe driver. Never even gotten a speed ticket.” His earnestness sets me back. “Trust me?”
I can’t imagine what reason I have to do so, but even though I barely know the guy, I feel safe with him.
“Yeah, of course.” With that, I slide the helmet on.
I came here for an adventure after all.
He’s got this faint smile as he watches me. Like he’s in on a secret. I don’t know how to read it or why it’s directed at me, but I like it.
Nate helps me adjust the chin strap, then tucks a few strands of hair out of my eyes. The light brush of his fingers against my forehead leaves my throat dry. Then he gets on the bike and disengages the kickstand. I hop on behind him, my pulse quickening when Nate takes my wrist to wrap my arm around his waist.
“Hold on tight. It gets bumpy.”
Leaning forward, I practically paste myself to his back. He’s muscular beneath my arms. I feel his abdomen expand and contract as he balances our weight on the tires. The bike roars to life, and he puts it in gear. Then we’re peeling off from the curb through the rushing air down the streets of Notting Hill.
Not long ago, my dad wouldn’t let me go to my college classes without texting me every ten minutes. I was the only nineteen-year-old I knew with a curfew. But as much as I appreciate Dad’s concerns, I can’t live my life governed by his fears. This is the most impervious, indestructible time of my life.
If I don’t take advantage of it now, I’ll eventually end up an old woman with few scars but more regrets.
