Page 55 of The Front Runner
I roll my shoulders back and will my growing erection away. Something that’s become a constant battle around Dr. Mira Thorne. I come to stand beside her at the bar in the corner, and the steady hum of conversation wraps around us, the quiet clinking of glasses, the odd round of raucous laughter.
People here are trying too hard. Unlike at Mira’s family’s house, where everyone was exactly how they are—even if that was meddling and overbearing. Every time I attend an event, it’s a reminder of why I left this lifestyle behind me. Sure, I put a suit on for race days or for sponsorship meetings for the shelter, but generally, I live in jeans and sweaters so I can tinker around the farm. I feel safe there—like the version of myself I want to be.
Already I feel my youth kicking in. The schmoozing. The wheeling and dealing. The I’ll- scratch-your-back-if-you-scratch-minechatter. Wealth impresses some people.
But I know better.
I’m here for one thing only. And I can see him across the room telling a story with animated hand gestures to a group of people who are pretending to be interested. A foot shorter than everyone here and a notch or two more obnoxious. The man is a predatory snake in the grass—precisely the type of man I have zero patience for in my life.
He plays checkers.
But I play chess.
A lesson Patrick Cassel is about to learn the hard way.
Mira steps up to the bar when the people ahead of us get their drinks. “I’ll have a beer in a champagne flute.”
The bartender, his brow knitting together, looks at her like she has two heads.
Her head tilts. “Did I stutter?”
The man jumps into action, shaking his head as he does, like he’s offended by her request. A crack of a bottle later and Mira is reaching for her glass with a fake smile.
The bartender turns in my direction. “What can I get you, sir?”
I rub my stubble as I look over the fully stocked bar. “I’ll have what the lady’s having.”
I swear the man rolls his eyes. Mira fails to stifle a giggle, and I find I don’t care at all what the bartender thinks when she makes noises like that. When my eyes dart to her, amusement is written all over her face.
“Very classy, Mr. Dalca.”
“I guess that makes two of us, Dr. Thorne.”
I wink at her, and she can’t help but smile as she looks around the packed room, taking in the women in fancy dresses and men in tuxedos, not missing a single thing.
“Lots of people I know here.”
“Figured as much.” I grab the glass off the bar and toss a tip down before taking a sip of my beer.
“It’s kind of funny,” Mira begins, though she doesn’t look very amused. “There are several people here who aren’t all that great to their horses. In fact, I’d say they’re part of the problem with this industry. The reason so many young thoroughbreds end up injured and unusable. And yet here they are, opening their checkbooks like it absolves them of that responsibility.”
She sounds so fierce. She isn’t wrong. There is no shortage of questionable people in this industry.
“You must get tired of seeing that.”
She takes a quick swig of her drink, chocolate eyes dancing with intelligence. “You have no idea.” But now she’s staring at Patrick across the room. For such a small man, he sure can project his voice.
I wrap my arm back around her, wanting to feel the line of her panties again and usher her out into the crowd. My index finger absently slides across the thin strap.Good god.These panties must be barely anything at all.
When I rub down the line again, unable to stop myself, she leans into me. “Hands off. I’m not interested in joining your rotation.”
She looks smug, but I’m downright confused.
“My rotation?”
She scoffs. “You know. Me on Saturday nights. The hot blonde on Sunday nights.”
“Hot blonde?” I stop us in our tracks and with a firm grip, spin her to face me.
