Page 3 of My Bestie's Billionaire Brother

Jane returns, slipping her phone into her pocket. "Charlie's joining us for dinner tonight," she announces.

Charlie raises an eyebrow. "I am?"

"You are," Jane confirms. "Unless Mr. CEO is too busy for a family dinner?"

"Never too busy for that," Charlie says, his eyes finding mine again.

"Sounds great," I manage, wondering if the heat in my cheeks is visible beneath the dirt. "Assuming Oliver doesn't kill me in the show ring."

"He won't," Charlie says with that same unshakable confidence. "I have a feeling today might turn out better than you think."

As he smiles down at me, standing tall and impossibly handsome in the morning light, I almost believe him.

Later, the announcer calls my name, and I guide Oliver through the in-gate with the careful precision of someone handling a bomb. Thankfully, this Oliver, collected and attentive beneath me, bears little resemblance to the wild creature who dragged me through the dirt earlier.

I've changed into my spare show shirt and jodphurs, brushed the hay from my hair, and plastered band-aids over the worst ofmy scrapes. My shoulder still protests with each movement, but adrenaline dulls the pain as we enter the ring.

I catch a glimpse of Charlie and Jane by the rail. Something about Charlie’s presence makes me sit deeper in the saddle, straightening my already-straight back.

The bell rings. I take a breath, squeeze my legs, and Oliver moves forward.

The first jump is a simple vertical with blue and white rails. I keep my eyes up, my hands soft but firm. Oliver's ears flick forward, assessing, and then we're airborne. He clears it with room to spare, landing with a smoothness that sends relief flooding through me.

We turn toward the second obstacle, an oxer that would have terrified me this morning, given Oliver's mood. But something has shifted in him. He's transformed into the horse I glimpsed when I first met him—powerful, athletic, and startlingly focused.

Jump after jump, we find our rhythm. My body moves in perfect synchrony with his, anticipating the adjustments needed for each approach.

At the combination—three jumps in close succession that require precise timing—Oliver hesitates slightly before the first fence. I close my legs and he responds immediately. We sail through the fences flawlessly, and I allow myself a fleeting smile as we land.

The last jump looms ahead—a wide liverpool with water beneath the rails. I guide him to the perfect takeoff spot and feel the powerful surge as he launches us over it with room to spare.

We cross the finish line, and the timer stops. Clean round. No faults. I exhale fully, patting Oliver's neck.

As I exit the ring, Jane meets me with a wide grin. "That," she says emphatically, "was not the same horse from this morning."

"Jekyll and Hyde," I agree, still patting Oliver's neck. He prances beneath me, clearly pleased with himself.

"Impressive," Charlie says, reaching out to touch Oliver's shoulder as we pass. "Both of you."

I dismount carefully, my body reminding me of its earlier abuse as my feet hit the ground. Oliver stands calmly beside me, nosing at Charlie's pocket.

"Sorry," I say, pulling Oliver's head back. "He's got zero manners."

Charlie laughs, reaching into his pocket and producing a peppermint. "Actually, I came prepared." He offers it on his flat palm, and Oliver plucks it up, crunching loudly.

"Let's get this boy untacked," Jane suggests, taking Oliver's reins from me.

We reach Oliver's stall, and I'm surprised when Charlie immediately steps in to help, unbuckling the girth with practiced hands while I remove Oliver's bridle. Jane fetches a water bucket, and for a few minutes, we work in comfortable silence—brushing and tending to Oliver.

"So," Charlie says, lifting the saddle from Oliver's back and carrying it to the rack outside the stall, "does he make a habit of dragging his riders through the dirt, or was that a special performance just for me?"

I roll my eyes, hanging the bridle on its hook. "He's been challenging since I got him, but today was a new level of drama."

Charlie returns with a cooler for Oliver, draping it over the horse's still-warm back. "I've missed this," he admits, smoothing the fabric with surprising care. "The smell of the barns, the routine of it all.”

"You mean the delightful blend of manure, hay, and horse sweat?" I ask, reaching for a brush.

"Exactly." He grins, taking a step back while I brush Oliver’s face. "Can't get that in a boardroom, no matter how heated the negotiations."

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