“There you go. That’s good. Now look at the next barrel and use your hands like a steering wheel, coming out of the turn. A soft L. Don’t pull back.”
She bites her lip, concentrating, and does exactly what I said. Honey responds beautifully, bending and driving through the turn like an old pro.
My heart swells in that stupid, dangerous way it does when one of my kids and their horse clicks.
Waylon watches her with pride written all over his face. It hits me, not for the first time, how much he loves that little girl.
When Ruby finishes her next pattern, I step in and lead Ruby through a few circles and straight-line practice loops before we walk Honey to cool her down.
Waylon waits by the fence, and that’s when I notice Charli’s next client, Laney, standing awfully close to him.
Too close.
I pretend not to listen as I pass by, but their voices drift over.
“Noah is my nephew,” Laney says. “We should totally get him and Ruby together for a playdate sometime.”
“Yeah, sure,” Waylon replies. “That sounds good.”
Ruby calls his name then, and he turns away, excusing himself. He helps her down from the saddle, lifts her like she weighs nothing, and sets her on the ground. She immediately takes off toward the main house, shouting something about Grandma’s milk and cookies.
Waylon follows me and Honey into the barn, closing the door behind us to keep the breeze out.
“So,” I say casually, “a playdate, huh?”
He shrugs. “Noah’s a little boy in Ruby’s day care class. He wants to come out to Ironhorse to see the horses or something.”
I snort. “Right.”
“What?” he asks, looking genuinely confused.
“I think Laney’s the one who wants the playdate.”
A slow grin spreads across his face. “Are you jealous, Stormy?”
“Hardly,” I say, lifting Honey’s saddle off and hanging it on the rack. “You can play with whomever you like.”
“Yes, you are,” he says lightly.
“I am not.”
“So jealous—I can tell.”
“You don’t know anything about me,” I add, defensive for no good reason.
He leans against the stall door, eyes warm, amused. “I know I can make you lose control with just these two fingers,” he says, wagging his extended fingers at me.
I hate that he’s right.
“Stop it.”
He stands and walks slowly toward me. “Should we test that theory again?”
I shake my head. “No.”
I retreat until my back is pressed into the stall door. He boxes me in. His big body hovering over mine. His hands resting against the wood.
“You sure?”
