Page 76 of Gift Horse

Get a drink.Talk to students. Check the saddles. Do anything other than look to see where he is, Lolly. You deserve better.

Mariano makesgood on his word. As soon as the Master of Foxhounds and the whippers-in—all of them dressed in the customary red coats of the hunt staff—gather near the arched stone gateway leading out to the road to be joined by the first flight horses and riders, Mariano leads a beautifully turned-out Miss P to me. The filly gleams, the tack is freshly conditioned, the saddle pad a spotless white.

When I tryto take the reins, Mariano keeps hold of them. “I’ll give you a leg up.”

“That’s not necessary—”

“Peterand I will help everyone aboard.” He smiles, and in fact, Peter has already given Hettie a leg up and moved on to assist Pippa, who seems to have been a jockey in some former, shorter life, so easily does she spring aboard Kahlua. “I think your filly will not like to keep waiting. She is not so patient as I am.”

My mouth drops open,but there’s no argument to be made. Mounting a young, inexperienced horse from the ground is always a bit dicey, and it’s hard on any horse’s back. I sigh and give Mariano a nod, barely able to meet his gaze. I gather the reins and he lets go, bending to make a cup with his hands.

We have not touched.Not since the morning I awoke in his arms in his bed. But just placing my bent knee into his firm, strong hands sends a thrill through me. Miss P must feel it too, because she sidesteps.

“Ready?Uno, dos, tres!”On three, I hop, and Mariano gives me a boost in perfect sync. Miss P begins walking the instant my seat touches the saddle—impatient indeed—and Mariano’s hands slide along the inside of my knee, the briefest of brushes. It raises goosebumps—mercifully hidden by my breeches—and even as I circle her in the area near our trailer, the heat of Mariano’s hands on my knee lingers.

Traitorous body.I hate you. Truly. Let him go. He’s not what he seems.

As soon asDentist Chris and Swooning Gemma are aboard, Mariano shrugs into his hunt coat and—holy wow—he is transformed into a rakishly aristocratic hunk, his hunkiness only heightened by the lithe and muscular prowess with which he vaults aboard Whiskey—no assistance necessary. But a rake is exactly what he is, and I mustn’t forget it, no matter how appealing he looks, no matter how delicious his slightest touch feels.

“This is our plan.”Mariano stands in his stirrups, making himself even taller as he focuses on Alan. “We ridejuntos, all of us together, but each rider also will have a partner.”

My temperature rises instantly.It is so easy to see where Mariano is going with this so-called plan. Pippa urges Kahlua closer to me and Miss P and holds out her flask, leaning to stretch her long arm across the distance between our horses. I take what is offered gratefully. Alcohol. I need alcohol to get me through this day.

“Alan and Chris and Gemma,you ride at the head of the group, which we’ll keep to the back of the hilltoppers. We may walk if needed. Pippa, you and Hettie will be partners, following just after. And Lolly and I will bring up the rear. In this way, we can see every one of you and offer any assistance if you need.”

Great.He has made it so it’s my job to ride with him, and I can’t fault him for his approach one bit.

The Masterof Foxhounds blows his horn in several reverberating blasts. The hunt has begun, precisely on time. The members of the hunt—distinguished by the green collars on their coats—flow through the stone gateway and down the road, the full-throated baying of the dogs echoing over the clopping of their horses’ hooves. As each flight of horses and riders lined up ahead of us trots through the gate, pulses quicken, blood pumps, the crowd buzzes, and horses twitch and fidget. Beneath me, Miss P jigs, so I keep her moving in small circles as we wait, turning away from Mariano and Whiskey, then coming back like a yo-yo.

But no matterwhat Mariano thinks he’s doing today with the braids and his plans, I’m not a toy to be reeled back in. No matter how much I feel the tug of the string that pulls between us, I refuse to be drawn into his arms again. He was in that elevator. He said nothing happened, but he signed someone’sboobs. And maybe it shouldn’t matter what he did when we weren’ttogetheryet, except he told me he ‘couldn’t’ sleep with the richie-rich-o because of me. And then he went tothat woman’ssuite. So, all in all: not honest. And who knows where those tourists—alleged tourists, I only have his word for it!—ended up? Probably rolling about in some disgusting, sweaty foursome.

Alan and Chrisand Gemma pick up the trot to follow after the rest of the hilltoppers.

“Here we go!”Pippa calls, a wide grin stretching across her face as she turns to Hettie and punches a fist into the air.

“Ride with me,”Mariano pins me with one of his smoldering looks, the one that blazed just before he bent to kiss me the first time, the one that seared me on the dance floor, as if he is oblivious to the fact that his plans, his attempts to win me back, are just unraveling string. And I, Lolly of the Frown and Scowl, will not be snarled again.

DRENCHED

Lolly Benoit. The Drag Hunt. The Cotswolds, England.

As soon as we’re moving, Miss P makes it clear that she has zero intention of staying behind every other horse on the hunt. She jigs and tosses her head and throws her haunches, and every moment makes it clear that she is a grenade and her pin has been pulled. To be fair, it’s a special horse, or a horse who has a special relationship with her rider, who is willing to be last in a herd of more than fifty horses, but all it does is make me wish for Teena even more.

Ahead of us, reins flapping, Alan bounces roughly and out-of-sync with the one-two rhythm of Schnapps’ trot, and, bless that horse, he just keeps moving steadily on. Chris and Gemma ride so close together their stirrups clink, making Gemma beam at her husband. Pippa tells Hettie something that makes them both laugh, and a bit of cool relief washes through me. Our charges are having a good time, and so long as I can keep Miss P from losing her mind, we’ll all be fine.

Beside me, Mariano rides quietly on Whiskey, who is completely unfazed by Rum Punch’s agitation. As we follow the procession of riders down the lane and through a gap in the hedgerow that leads to a wide green field, Mariano reins Whiskey in to let me pass. His gaze lingers as we trot by.

Screw you. Really. You had me believing you were the one. I could not be more disappointed if there was a damned videotape of you screwing half of Florida. In your riding jacket, covered in jam, with cake and flowers and champagne and a mouth that can tease honey from pollen.

He catches up easily, and trots alongside again. “Lolly—” His tone is serious, etched with pain and layered with disappointment.

“Mr. Arias!” I cut him off, my words sharp and loud enough that Pippa throws a glance over her shoulder as she trots on.

I lower my voice and try to ignore the hurt that softens Mariano’s gaze, though nothing else has changed in his expression. “I’m not having this conversation. Not here. Not ever.”

We ride on in silence. In my pocket, my phone buzzes with a text. But Miss P requires all my attention just to keep her energy focused on where I want her to go instead of what she wants to do.

The fog has burned off, and beams of newly warmed spring sun slant across the field, making the bright green grass glow as if lit from within, and the horses’ coats go iridescent with shine. The part of me that bursts open wide when I gallop Teena, or when Mariano… No. I will not think ofhim, orthat. Some innermost part of me—myheart—cracks open just a bit as I allow Miss P to lengthen her stride the teensiest amount, while still keeping a safe distance from Hettie and Pippa’s mounts. Mariano matches our pace and memories of our gallop across the polo field come flooding back, the way he read the field and my choice before I even knew I’d made it. It was like finishing each other’s sentences, and all I know is I need space, I need to get away from him. Tears threaten and I have to gulp down air to stop myself from blubbing.

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