And to be fair, itwasa good surprise.
Just . . . aMongoliakind of surprise.
When he said “I’ve planned a holiday” I was picturing Paris. Maybe Rome. Somewhere with chairs and wine and places to sit. Somewhere I could wear linen and sunglasses and pretend to be the kind of sophisticated woman who dates posh surgeons.
Instead, I am halfway up a mountain, surrounded by untamed wilderness, the only contact with civilization—besides my handsome boyfriend—being my stern-faced guide who has made it very clear that if I fall off this horse, that is entirelymyproblem.
That being said . . .
Itisbreathtaking.
The steppe stretches on forever, endless and empty in a way that makes London feel like it’s on another planet. This enormous carpet of green and gold, with mountains rising in the distance. The sky—god, thesky—I don’t think I’ve ever seen blue like this.
No roads. No buildings. No Wi-Fi. Just the occasional yurt, which I assume houses people far braver than me. The air is crisp and cool, thick with the scent of grass, earth, and an overwhelming amount of horse.
Edward looks so fucking pleased with himself.
When he first told me that he had booked us a horse-riding trip in Mongolia, he looked at me expectantly. Waiting. Waiting for me to squeal in delight, I think?
And what could I do?
I screamed. With joy.
Because we were going away! Together! Our first proper holiday. And if Edward—who spends his life buried in work, who rarelyevertakes time off—wanted to spend it galloping across Mongolia, then I was going to bloody wellgallop across Mongolia. Even if it killed me, which it might.
“I’ve planned somewhere special for us,” he’d said, grinning.
“Ooh, where to?” I’d asked, already mentally packing bikinis and sundresses.
“Mongolia,” he announced, proud as anything.
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I thought Mongolia was one of those vaguely mythical places parents use to threaten misbehaving children. LikeEat your broccoli or we’re shipping you off to Mongolia.
Because I love him.
And because I was too stunned to argue.
It’s an odd choice. Abafflingchoice, really. He mentioned something about Lizzie giving him “all the info he needed,” which, in hindsight, should have been a red flag because Lizzie is often drunk.
And because I cannot recall a single time in my life where I have givenanyonethe impression that I wanted to come to Mongolia. Maybe he misheard me say “mojito”?
I had to sneakily check a map just to confirm that yes, Mongolia is indeed where I thought it was.
OuterMongolia, to be precise. As in,the middle of absolutely fucking nowhere.
And now here I am—bouncing ungracefully on the back of a horse that would prefer I wasn’t, my thighs on fire, my dignity lost somewhere back at the last yurt, and, most tragically, miles away from the nearest cocktail.
But that’s fine because the handsome man on the horse in front of me is here. And I love him.
Life is good right now.
Last night, lying outside our ger (which is what they call those round tent things, and which are surprisingly cozy), he pointed out constellations while I nodded along, pretending to follow but mostly just watching his face and wondering how the hell he made astronomy sexy.
I cannot wait to finally shag Edward properly again. In a real bed. A big bed. A bed with walls, ideally thicker than yak wool. Because let’s be honest—Batu our guide can hear everything.
I smirk to myself as I watch him ahead—broad shoulders taut, biceps flexing with every subtle pull of the reins, his body moving in perfect sync with the horse. Strong, controlled, completely at ease. It’s like watching a damn cowboy fantasy come to life. If he weren’t already my boyfriend, I’d be in serious danger of falling in love with him right now.
He took riding lessons as a child. While I, on the other hand, was learning how to jump off a moving swing at theexactright moment to avoid a concussion. Different life skills, same level of risk.
