I’m awake long before dawn. Not to get up and torture Nixon, but because of his invitation. It’s been three days since he asked me to go riding, and each day, a really good excuse has come up. But last night, Nixon told me today was the day, that he wasn’t taking no for an answer. I agreed because I couldn’t think of a good lie fast enough. Not that he’d have believed me anyway.

There are myriad reasons I don’t want to go. Riding alone holds all sorts of emotional triggers, but riding with him… My God, I can’t even imagine tackling all my demons in the presence of someone who turns my head inside out.

The strange thing is, part of me thinks that might be the best way to go about it. Nixon is nothing if not distracting. Very distracting. Maybe riding with him would be the best way to get back on the horse, literally and metaphorically.

If I don’t chicken out before breakfast, that is.

He’s gone when I get up. The cottage is clean, quiet, and empty. I might not know I have a roommate at all if not for the note he left on the counter beside the coffee pot.

Don’t forget THIS AFTERNOON. Today is the day. Time to get back on the horse. Makes me wish I was a horse.

It’s penned in a slanted, masculine scrawl. I stare at it so long I decide that if handwriting could be personified, this would indeed be Nixon Holt.

Don’t forget this afternoon. As if. Ha! I’ve thought of little else. In fact, since meeting Nixon, I’ve thought of little else except him period. It’s like having a schoolgirl crush at the ripe old age of twenty-nine. Just a thousand times more embarrassing.

And, if I’m honest, a thousand times hotter.

Time to get back on the horse. The last time someone tried to talk me into getting back on the horse, it was figurative, and it ended with me kissing a stranger in a bar then showing up at his hotel room for my first non-solo orgasm in a shamefully long time. For that reason, I find his turn of phrase in this instance both apropos and intimidating.

And the last line… It conjures all sorts of naughty thoughts, just as I’m sure he knew it would. Damn him.

I don’t need help thinking of Nixon in a sexual way, and it’s for this reason I know I probably won’t go with him today. It would be too risky. He works for my dad, and that puts him squarely in the unbreakable rule category. There’s no sense tempting fate by going on an afternoon jaunt with him.

I decide the best way to hold firm is to just be gone when lunchtime rolls around. Like I forgot. Avoidance is rarely the best strategy, but in this case, I think it’s imperative.

After a quick trip up to the main house, my excuse to be absent presents itself in my conversation with my father.

“What are you up to today?”

“I don’t know yet. Got anything for me to do?”

“Nope. Not that I can think of.”

Damn.

“What are the girls up to today?” I see them in short spurts, here and there, but not together at once since our big dinner the other night.

“Hannah’s catering…somewhere. Harper’s still hunting for a building. Hope’s still in the woods.”

“In the woods?”

“She left night before last to go and take some pictures.”

“Night before last?”

“Yep. She’s camping.”

“Hope is camping?”

“Yep. She wanted to get a lot of early and late shots, so she’s just staying along the western pasture, in the foothills.”

“Hope?” Roughing it doesn’t sound at all like the Hope I know.

He nods.

I ponder that for a few seconds. Actually, this could give me a legitimate reason to go and find her—the curious need to see this oddity for myself. And going to spend some time with my sister is as good an excuse to be gone from this place as any.

“Okay. Thanks, Daddy.”

I pack a canvas bag full of food and several waters and go in search of one of the ranch trucks to take out to look for Hope’s spot. I’m throwing the bag onto the passenger seat when a horse strolls in front of the truck. He’s a beautiful chestnut with a dark mane and tail, but he’s nothing compared to the beauty of his rider. Nixon is astride him, his long legs encased in denim, broad chest encased in chambray. He’s wearing a black cowboy hat that makes the black of his eyes appear to be endless pools of ebony liquid. His posture is relaxed, like he was born to sit a horse. And all of that is very compelling, as is the mare he’s tugging along with him, but nothing is as convincing or confusing or as breathtaking as the smile that curves his lips as I stare.

“I didn’t take you for a chicken. Not with those legs.” Even under the shadow of his hat’s brim, I see the devilish twinkle of his eyes.

“I’m not a chicken. I just have other plans.”

“You didn’t last night.”

“I just made them today.”

“To avoid me.”

“No, I—”

“Admit it. You’re scared.”

“I’m not scared. I’m g—”

He starts to bock bock bock like a chicken. “Chick, chick, chickennnn,” he adds, his smile never completely fading.

“I’m not a chicken,” I repeat. “I just need to go find Hope.”

“I just…I just need to.”

“Well, in that case, hop on.” He sits up straighter. “I know where she went.”

“I’m taking the truck.”

“Not today you’re not. Come on.”

“I told you—”

“You can’t get the truck into where she is.”

That brings me up short. “Oh. Then how’d she get up there?”

“I took her.”

“Oh,” I say again, tamping down the weed of jealousy that springs up at the thought of her on the back of his horse, arms wrapped around his waist. Them laughing and joking together.

What the hell is your problem, Haley?

I sit behind the wheel, staring out at Nixon, my stomach doing all sorts of weird acrobatics, and I realize that I can’t avoid him now, not if I want to find Hope, which I told him I did. I do want to see my sisters as much as possible while I’m here, but the timing had more to do with being unavailable for Nixon than anything else. Now that isn’t an issue. My cowardice was my own trap. Now I’m stuck. Caught in a snare of my own making.

Ain’t that a bitch?

“I bet I could find her.”

“She’s on part of the land your father bought a couple years back. I doubt you’d know it.”

To that, I say nothing. There’s nothing to say. He’s got an answer for every question, a way around every obstacle. The man is as infuriating as he is persistent. And irresistible.

“Come on, Haley. I don’t bite.” There’s a pause before he adds one short, spine-tingling word. “Hard.”

OhGodohGodohGod! A shiver shoots through me at the mental image that comes to mind. Or, rather, the mental sensation.

Damn you, dirty mind! Damn you!

I scramble out of the truck, as if that’ll get me away from the thoughts racing through my head. I glance down at my black jeans, cute (not functional) boots, and light flannel shirt. “I’m not really dressed to ride. I’ll have to change.”

“You’ll be fine in that. If we’re out late, and you get cold, I’ll keep you warm.”

As enticing as that sounds, I know I can’t let it happen. “We won’t be out that late.”

“Fine. You’ve got it all worked out, so come on. Let’s ride.”

I grab my bag, stuff it into the saddlebag of the mare, put my foot in the stirrup, and take a deep breath. It’s been so long… For so many things… Including riding a horse.

“Think of something that soothes you,” Nixon says quietly from my left as though he knows what’s on my mind even without my ridiculous blushing.

My palm grows damp where it grips the pommel. “I don’t know of anything.”

“Close your eyes, then, and listen to my voice.”

I suppress a groan. The last thing I need is to focus more intently on him.

“I—”

“Jesus, just do it. Do you have to make everything so hard, woman?”

The word hard circles me back to his previous comment, which helps me Not. At. All.

“Okay, they’re closed. Now what? What am I supposed to think about?”

Nixon begins a torturous attempt at trying to calm me. “Don’t think. Just feel.”

“That’s—”

“Shhhh. Just trust me.” I clamp my lips shut on a sigh and just do as he says. The sooner this is over, the better.

“Fine,” I grumble.

“Start with the horse. Feel her. Feel her warmth. Feel her coarse hair. Feel her as she breathes. Feel how calm she is. Feel how strong and steady she is.” I do my best to focus on the things he’s suggesting rather than the voice in which he’s suggesting them. It’s like listening to chocolate. Dark, rich, smooth chocolate.

“Now feel the way the stirrup cups your foot. Feel the leather of the saddle. Feel the heat of the sun, the cool of the breeze.”

At that exact moment, a breeze worthy of this autumn afternoon kicks up and stirs my hair. It brings me fully into the moment, into the world-within-a-world he’s introducing me to.

“Think about right here, right now. No other day, no other time matters. Just you and her, and right now.”

I feel the horse shift toward me the tiniest bit; instinctively, I push off the ground with my left leg as I swing my right leg over her broad back. My butt slides into the saddle like it was there just yesterday.

I exhale.

When my eyes drift open, Nixon is smiling over at me.

“Was that as good for you as it was for me?” He winks, and I can’t help laughing.

“You are the very definition of incorrigible. Just sayin’.”

“Nah. I’m just good with my mouth.” I arch a brow. “Distracting with it, I mean.”

That qualification didn’t help.

At all.

“It definitely distracted me.”

Nixon urges his horse into a trot, but as he turns, I could swear I hear him say, “Just you wait.”