“Keep the reins even, not too slack,” he continues. “Sit upright. Don’t be nervous, or your horse will feel it. Your horse’s name is Jupiter’s Many Moons. We call him Jupiter for obvious reasons. He’s tame and he won’t unseat you. Questions?”
Dare doesn’t wait, he digs his heels into his horse’s sides and they take off at a brisk trot. Or what I think is called a trot.
And I’m left in my version of hell.
“I don’t like riding much!” I call to him, but he doesn’t answer. I have a view of his backside, and even though I’m annoyed, I have to marvel at how at home he seems in the saddle. He doesn’t look like a cowboy. He looks like a refined gentleman, like you could stick a polo stick in his hands and he’d be perfectly at home.
He pauses his horse with a low whoa and turns to me.
“To stop, pull back on the reins and say whoa.”
“Got it.”
I grip the reins tight. “Do you ever just wear t-shirts here, or do you always dress up?” Because he’s wearing a collared polo right now. And while he does look fantastic, I just wonder if he ever feels at home here, the way he seemed to back in Astoria.
He smirks. “Eleanor would say that’s beneath us.”
“But you don’t care what Eleanor thinks,” I point out. “That much is obvious.”
“I’m here right now, aren’t I?” His dark eyebrow is raised, and even though I can’t argue, I wish I could. A part of me, deep down, wishes that he were here because he wanted to be.
“You might not like riding, but you’re good at it.”
Without realizing it, I leave myself wide open and Dare grins.
“You know I’m good at riding everything.”
He says everything in the most provocative way I’ve ever heard and he does it on purpose, to get a reaction from me. I swallow hard.
“I’m sure you’ve had no complaints,” is all I say and he glances at me.
“About last night…” he begins and I roll my eyes.
“I’m sure you have to start many conversations with those words,” I interrupt.
He smirks again.
“Perhaps. But seriously, I do apologize. That wasn’t in good form. You weren’t ready to kiss me again, and I shouldn’t have forced it.”
What a British thing to say. Something about it, and his accent, sends my heart into somersaults.
“I liked it,” I admit quietly, and the words are out before I can take them back or hide them.
He’s clearly pleased by my answer, so I add, “But it doesn’t change anything. I still need space.”
Even though I want you more than ever.
His face clouds over and we fall silent. Finally, I can’t take it anymore and ask the first thing I can think of.
“Do you like it here?” I ask as we guide our horses onto the quiet lane outside of the driveway. Their hooves make clipped sounds on the cobbles, and I decide that I’m quite good at this.
“No,” his answer is immediate and short. “You?”
“No,” I sigh.
“You should get used to it. It’s where you’re from,” is all he offers.
I sigh again.