I swatted him.
Then I kissed him.
He rolled on top of me.
And he kissed me.
Tennis Bracelet Day, as it would henceforth be known for all eternity, was Friday morning.
It was now Saturday afternoon.
Battle and I had worked yesterday.
This morning, we had sex (again, my room), got showered, dressed and went down to have breakfast with the girls.
After that, we went riding, and Tempie came with us.
Battle was impressed with how much more comfortable I was on Noelle, but I left my ride to continuing to get used to a canter while they took off at a run.
Watching them race through the field, I doubled down on my intent to learn how to ride better so I could someday do that with them.
Truth, Tempie was totally the shit (she was wearing black riding breeches and boots, with a crisp white blouse (another mental note: buy riding breeches—not only were they the shit, it seemed like they gave your legs more freedom, even than jeans, which could be restricting), and her horse, Calpurnia, was an unusual, lustrous silver black).
But Lord…
In faded jeans and an olive-green button down, Battle bent forward, racing his sister on the back of his blood bay?
Be still my freaking heart.
After our ride, we cleaned up and Battle took me into the village for a pub lunch and a half pint of cider.
The day was nice, and they were getting warmer, so we sat outside at a picnic table with hanging baskets and pots of England’s famous lush, bright flowers all around.
He knew people and nodded when he caught their eyes, or they stopped by the table for a moment to say hello, whereupon he always introduced me, and never failed to wedge in the words “bestselling author,” something I freaking loved, because he seemed almost as proud of that as me.
It was cool to see him out and about and being just Battle. He was too danged tall, built and gorgeous not to give off a certain presence, but it wasn’t a duke-ish one. And it was clear all of these people who he’d lived among all his life were as comfortable with him as he was with them.
In other words, they didn’t act like Henry Cavill stumbled into their pub for a bacon and brie sandwich, chips and a pint of Guiness.
When we returned, I took him to the studio to show him the photos I wanted to use (he approved). We then sat on the chaise so I could show him my outline on my laptop (he approved of that too).
After that, he asked if he could see Marie’s journal.
I dug it out for him.
He then lounged all sexy-hot duke on the chaise, one hand behind his head, the other holding up the diary, legs stretched out, ankles crossed, Gingerface hunkered down on his chest (Snowball, by the by, was on my desk (her favorite spot in the studio if the fire wasn’t going), Baby Blue hadn’t ventured out with us, but Bartholomew had somehow wedged himself under the desk and was resting his head on my feet).
Battle read while I went to the desk and did some online shopping.
Tempie had confirmed “spring formal” for Rally and Courtney’s wedding meant some springtime-esque formalwear…
“But, dearest, Battle is a man, so he missed part of it,” she stated. “The ceremony will be smart dress and hat. Everyone is changing for the evening reception to formalwear.”
So I needed two outfits.
And a hat.
Although shopping for a wedding hat was a fun online trip (I’d never purchased a hat that wasn’t a baseball cap), I got sidetracked in this endeavor (though, before that happened, I’d found two sexy nighties, which I bought).
