“Grimm’s seen worse,” she said, patting the stallion’s neck to steady her own trembling hand. “He only gets nervous when I do.”
“Smart,” the stranger said. “Knows to trust good judgment.”
When he said that, her stomach flipped. She tried to convince herself this was only gratitude, only the relief of someone stepping between anger and an innocent creature. But as she really looked at him—at the way the light from the stable door softened the line of his jaw, at the way a dimple creased his cheek when he smiled again—another feeling bloomed, bright and frightening and sweet.
Is this…?she thought, half breathless.Is this what those books meant?Her heart seemed to be everywhere at once: in her throat, in her ears, in her fingers gripping the reins.
She became suddenly self-conscious—of her crooked hair, of the smell of manure on the bottom of her boots, of the smear of dust on her cheek she hadn’t wiped off properly that morning. She fought the wild urge to smooth her rags, to tuck her hair behind her ears, to make herself look like the princess she was.
“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward Grimm’s shoulder.
It took her a second to realize he was asking permission to come closer. That he thought he needed it. “Yes,” she said quickly. “Of course.”
He stepped in, hand out, letting Grimm sniff his fingers before stroking the stallion’s neck. “He’s beautiful,” the young man said. “Strong. Proud.” He glanced up at her. “Like someone else I just met.”
Heat rushed to Snow White’s face. She was glad, for once, of the stable’s dimmer light. “I’m not—” she began automatically, then stopped, not wanting to argue herself out of a compliment from the first person who had looked at her in years. She slid one leg over Grimm’s back to dismount, then hesitated. The ground seemed further away than usual. Or perhaps it was simply that the idea of being on the same level as this boy, face to face, made her more nervous than any high saddle.
“Here, let me help you,” he offered, seeing her pause.
She didn’t need help. She’d been slipping off Grimm’s back like a cat since she was eight. But there was something in his earnest expression that made her nod. “All right,” she said.
He moved to her side, hands lifting, careful not to touch her until the last possible moment. As she swung her leg over and slid down, his palms settled lightly at her waist.
The contact shocked her.
His hands were warm and strong through the rough wool, fingers spanning her easily. Her own hands, which had been gripping the saddle, fluttered awkwardly for balance, then landed for a second on his shoulders, which were more muscular than she expected. For that heartbeat, their bodies and breaths aligned. She felt the rise and fall of his chest under her fingertips, the faint rasp of fabric under her palms, the steady strength in his grip. She began to feel like the floor was spinning.
Her boots hit the straw. He did not let go at once. “Steady,” he murmured.
“I am,” she said, then quickly unsure if he was talking to her or Grimm. “Steady, I mean.”
He smiled again, and this time there was a hint of shyness in it, as if he was as startled by their nearness as she was. They were standing very close now, barely an arm’s length apart. She could see the deep blue ring around his irises, the tiny freckle at the corner of his mouth, the way a lock of hair refused to lie flat over his forehead. No one had ever told her about love or what it felt like. She didn’t know that falling in love could feel like stepping off the edge of a cliff. It was as if every book she’d ever read had gathered itself into a synchronized chorus ofthis—this is what we meant.
“Thank you,” she said again, softer now, the words carrying more than one meaning.
“You’re welcome,” he replied, his own voice lower than before. “Any decent person would have done the same.”
But she knew, and somehow he seemed to know too, that what had just passed between them was not something “any decent person” did every day. Grimm snorted, as if to reclaim her attention. Snow White startled slightly, then, desperate to do something with her hands, reached past the young man to the cloth bag hanging from a peg on the wall. It knocked lightly against his shoulder as she fumbled with the ties.
He stepped forward half a pace, misreading the movement. His eyes flickered down to her mouth. For the barest instant, he leaned forward, like a man drawn by gravity.
She felt the air change between them, warmer and tighter. Her own body, responding before her mind could catch up, tipped forward a fraction.
Time stretched.
He closed his eyes, just a little, as if bracing for impact.
Snow White’s hand found an apple in the sack. Her fingers curled around it like a lifeline.
She turned her head, reaching past his temple, and the moment shattered.
She lifted the fruit over his shoulder.
“Here,” she said brightly—to Grimm, to herself, to the entire awkward universe. “Someone’s earned a treat.” The stallion nickered. Glad for something safe to do, Snow White pressed the apple to his muzzle. Grimm’s strong teeth crunched through the skin. Juice ran over her fingers.
The young man blinked, realization and mortification chasing each other across his face. “I, ah—” He cleared his throat, stepping back fully now. “Of course. The apple. For the horse. Naturally.”
Heat climbed Snow White’s neck. “Obviously,” she managed. “What else would it be for?” They both laughed then, a touch too loud, a touch too quickly, the sound covering everything neither quite dared to say.
