Page 11 of The Front Runner
Stefan and I work silently and efficiently. I’d be lying if I said I’m not surprised by his work ethic. He always looks so polished and prissy, like a total square, when I see him. Expensive suit, perfectly coiffed hair, absolutely in controlalways. So, these last twenty-four hours have been a surprise. My forehead wrinkles under the pressure of trying to reconcile the two different versions of this man. He’s a walking, talking contradiction, and I can’t help letting my mind wander to the golden manual labor version of him.
This version is what I like in a man, and it’s tripping me out. Thinking of Stefan Dalca as anything other than our competitor, and a dick in general, feels traitorous. If my friends could read my mind, they’d read me the riot act.
Especially when he hops up onto the tractor, turns the key, and lets his tongue slide out over his bottom lip as the machine roars to life beneath him. He drives it casually, inching forward down the alleyway so that the trailer lines up with where we’re working next. His corded forearm ripples where it’s slung casually over the wide steering wheel.
And I blame everything that I’m noticing about Stefan Dalca on the delirious level of exhaustion I’m experiencing today. With all my faculties about me, there’d be no way I would check him out.
His gaze moves over to me, and I drop my head quickly, raking through perfectly clean shavings like I missed something. Hoping upon hope that he didn’t notice me staring at him.Again.
We finish the barn, fill the hay nets, and lead all his horses back in from their time outside. We don’t talk, we just do. He must be almost as tired as I am, and I figure I’m gaining some good karma points for helping him today.
I think? Probably not any good karma points with Billie. But whatever. She doesn’t need to know what it took to soften the man up. She’ll just be happy when she gets what she wants.
The metallic clang of the last stalls being latched echoes through the barn, and he finally turns to regard me. A light layer of dust from the shavings coats his dark gold hair.
My fingers itch to brush it off for him.
“Now are you going to tell me what it is you want?”
I brush the shavings off my fleece coat instead, mulling over the best way to respond to him. It strikes me that playing dumb with Stefan won’t be a winning strategy. So, I smirk at him. “Yes.”
He chuckles and stares up at the ceiling, shaking his head. “You must want it pretty bad to have spent the last few hours doing physical labor with me.”
I wave him off. “I can handle physical labor. I need your help though.”
He leans back against the stall and quirks an eyebrow, urging me on.
I take a deep breath and open my eyes wide. It sounds bad, but I’ve learned a few tricks throughout the years for bringing men around to my way of thinking. A well-placed doe-eyed look has brought many a gruff old horse breeder around to splurging on a lifesaving procedure. Does that make me a bad person? I’m not sure, but I’m willing to toe that line to save lives. As far as I’m concerned, it’s just me doing my job to the best of my abilities.
Stefan snorts, hitting me with a smirk of his own. “Don’t use that look on me, Mira. Just spit it out.”
For crying out loud.This guy really is the worst. “Fine. I have a foal that needs a nurse mare. Without one, he won’t survive.”
He just stares, green eyes pinning me in place.
“And you have one...”
“Who does the foal belong to?” His voice is calm, measured. He shows no signs of surprise.
Might as well just spit it out. “Gold Rush Ranch.”
His lips roll together in thought, and I run my sweaty palms down over my jeans. He’d been a good enough guy to turf Patrick Cassell the very day I told him about what the jockey did to Violet. He marched straight back to the barn and fired the weasel on the spot. Pulled him from the race they were heading into and ate the entry fee with no questions asked.
Hopefully, he’ll be good enough to do this too.
“Okay.” His reply is simple. So simple that it almost confuses me.
“Really? Just...okay?”
His responding grin is wolfish. Boyishly charming. And the dark smudges beneath his eyes do nothing to detract from how handsome he is.
“Yes.” He pauses. “Well, I have a couple of conditions.”
Yup. There it is. Wiley bastard.
I roll my eyes. I can’t help myself. And I flick my hand, motioning for him to spit it out.
“One, I want to keep them here on my farm.”
