Page 35 of It Happened Again

Maisy snorted, eyes narrowing. “Hey! Says the man who wore that crooked scarf anyway, and multiple times, from what I could tell when I picked it up off the floor at Orion. I saw the frayed edges.”

I leaned over in my saddle a little to get closer to her. “What can I say? It’s one of a kind and I wear it proudly.”

“Well, I made a second attempt at knitting while I was on the ship.”

My jaw ticked. “No, don’t even tell me you gave one to Thorne?”

“Relax. He’s never worn it. Said thank you, but I saw the face he made. Pretty sure he thought I was handing him a tube sock. You, on the other hand…”

“I wear mine with pride.” I practically beat my chest like the king of the jungle would do. “But you’re right. It’s not what it once was.” I glanced at her. “Doesn’t smell like you anymore.”

She shifted slightly in the saddle, watching the trees ahead.

“I think I should give it back,” I said, tone light. “You can wear it for a night. Then return it to me. That way, it’ll smell like you again. Could be good for my stress hormones if you’d like to test the theory and track my response to it.”

She tried not to smile. Failed.

“You’re incorrigible,” she muttered through her grin.

“I’m persistent,” I corrected. “Big difference.”

“I suppose you could give it back and I could see what I could do to fix the frayed edges?”

“I’ve got a few frayed edges myself. Maybe more time with you would fix them.”

She blushed, about to respond, but Paris urged her pony into a faster trot. “I’m gonna go along the creek!”

“Not too far!” Maisy called after her.

When we finished the entire trail, back at the barn, Paris rushed through unsaddling and brushing her pony down withrecord speed. Maisy and I helped with the tack, both of us somehow working in sync like we’d done this before.

The moment Paris ran off toward the house, taking her chatter and a million questions with her, the barn went quiet. The low nickering of horses and the scent of hay, leather, and something warmer surrounded us as we finished cleaning up.

Maisy stood on tiptoes and reached high to hang the bridle on a hook. One look at her back, the soft inward curve of her narrow waist opening up to rounded hips, the way the light caught in her golden hair—and something inside me broke wide open.

“I will not survive another seven weeks of pretending.” I spoke deliberately.

She turned, brow furrowed. “Pretending what?”

“That I don’t want you.”

Her mouth parted, but she didn’t speak.

I crossed the space between us, slow and purposeful, until there was barely room for air.

Her voice was tight, staring up into my eyes. “We said we’d be professional.”

“I’m trying.”

She blinked. “It’s only six more weeks, Brooks,” came her breathy reply.

“And after? What then?”

A moment passed. Then two. And then?—

She kissed me first, launching herself at me with her arms around my neck. She surprised me, so I almost tipped backward into the hay.

Then I took back control, wrapped a hand around her waist and pulled her closer, and it turned into something else entirely.

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