"I'm treating him like a respected equal who—" My words vanish into a strangled yelp as I attempt what should be a graceful mount.
Instead, the stirrup betrays me, the saddle conspires against me, and suddenly I'm dangling off Satan's side. The stallion—this majestic bastard—turns his head and looks at me like I've personally offended centuries of equestrian dignity.
Ivy's doubled over in her saddle, one hand pressed to her mouth, tears bright in the corners of her eyes. But fuck me if she isn't the prettiest thing I've ever seen.
"This is a defective horse." I right myself, face burning.
She nudges her mare toward me, still giggling, her shoulders shaking as she tries to rein it in. There's this brightness in her eyes, in the way her whole face moves when she laughs, and for a moment, I forget I'm supposed to be defending my honor.
"Here, put your foot in the stirrup first, no, the other foot, then swing up like you're not actively trying to break your neck."
I follow her instructions, managing to get seated this time. "There. Practically a professional."
"Mhmm. Now try to stay up there for more than thirty seconds. I believe in you." That cool, glinting blue narrows on me, the heat in her stare making my nerves buzz. It's that too-much, too-fast kind of flutter I haven't experienced before.
The trail winds ahead, all pristine rows of grapevines drenched in sunset gold, and my stallion seems hellbent on exploring literally anything but the actual path.
"Forward," I command, trying to sound authoritative. Satan responds by beelining straight for the nearest vine.
"You have to use the reins," Ivy calls out, already several yards ahead and looking annoyingly comfortable. Her horse prances beneath her. Show-offs, both of them.
"I am using the—" Satan veers left so fast I nearly taste my spine. "Listen here, you four-leggedterrorist—"
"Be nice!" Ivy's trying to sound stern but failing spectacularly. "He can sense your energy."
"My energy is perfectly—" The rest of my sentence disappears into a mouthful of leaves as Satan decides to take the scenic route under the lowest-hanging branch in the entire fucking vineyard. "Son of a—"
"Oh my god! Your face when you . . . and Comet . . ." She dissolves into another fit of laughter that has her gripping the saddle horn for support.
"This is clearly revenge." I spit out what I'm pretty sure is half a tree. "What did I do in a past life to deserve the Devil's favorite steed?"
"Comet's spirited." She wipes her eyes, still giggling. "If you'd let Grayson come with us—"
"We don't need a babysitter."
"No, you just need a helmet. And possibly bubble wrap."
The sun dips behind the ridge, turning the field to molten amber. Ivy shifts in the saddle, eyes scanning the horizon, and the light catches in her braid, setting it off in streaks of cobalt and deep indigo. My fingers curl tighter around the reins, and my chest pulls tight like it's bracing for impact. Because this version of her—wild and free and completely herself—is the one I don't want to share with anyone else.
I'd let this hellspawn of a horse drag me through every vineyard in the state if it meant I could stay in this bubble where it's just her and me and nothing else gets in.
It's quiet. Easy. The silence doesn't ask for anything. Being next to her feels good in a way I don't question. Like peace I didn't know I was allowed to have.
"So . . ." She trails her fingers through Misty's mane. "That email from Pixel Dreams looked promising."
The moment fractures, and I remember why I don't let myself want things like this.
"Been taking bets with myself on when you'd bring that up."
"Why didn't you tell me about it?"
"Because it's nothing." The lie comes out rehearsed.
"A gaming company practically begging you to interview?" She guides her horse closer, her eyes cutting through my armor. That's not nothing, Caleb."
"They probably mass email everyone."
"Caleb." Her tone doesn't waver. "Why won't you even consider it?"
