Elana comes bounding out of the house, almost crashing into me. “Off to see Mister Hot and sweaty blacksmith, are we?” she jokes. She turns around, wrapping her arms around herself, pretending to kiss an invisible person in front of her.
I fling a carrot at her. Elana squeals but doesn’t refrain from laughing.
“Better keep your mouth shut or I’ll let slip about you and the baker’s boy,” I reply.
She stares at me with narrowed lips and a scowl.
“What’s that about the baker’s boy?” Mum asks as she appears out of the cottage, closing the door behind her.
Elana mouths, ‘Don’t you dare.’
I blow her a kiss and walk away.“Nothing. Elana was just saying how much she enjoys eating his buns.”
Elana stares at me, eyes wide open, her face turning a shade of scarlet.
Mum pauses for a second, nodding her head before answering, “Yes, he does have some nice buns.”
Wyatt chokes on his water, while I try to hold back my laugh. Elana storms back into the house and slams the door.
“Teenagers,” I say to Mum with a shrug.
Mum glances back at the cottage before looking at me quizzically, understanding that she has missed the joke. Not that I’m going to enlighten her.
Wyatt and I do as we’re told. I click my tongue for Misty to walk on, leaving the tranquillity of our little cottage, and heading across the bridge towards the town.
The cart rumbles over the uneven road that stretches through Old Town, passing by the dated wooden houses, with their patched up, thatched roofs and worn-down shutters.
Continuing along the cobble-stoned road that leads into modern Vendyl, we reach the town square filled with beautiful stone buildings, elegant homes—or they were, before the rise in taxes. Now, even their glow has diminished.
Standing tall in the centre of town, towering over all the buildings, is the magnificent Temple of Pria, the Goddess of harvest and fertility. Sparkling white marble and tall stained-glass windows, stunningly depicting moments in our history. I gaze up at the enormous wooden door, decorated with carvings of folk throughout time. I could spend hours taking in every detail.
Tying up Misty’s reins, we settle between the florist and the wine vendor. Mum greets them both with a cheery ‘hello,’ while I ignore the incessant small talk and organise the produce with Wyatt.
I glance around the town square, my eyes stopping at the blacksmith. A smile threatens to sneak up on my face as I see Myles standing beside the fire, holding up a sword, admiring his work. The sun reflects off the sword, lighting up the moisture on his chest. His body glistens, defining his lean muscles, as a bead of sweat runs the length of his face.
The first time I met Myles was about six months ago. Misty sprang a shoe one night while we were out for a ride, and on the way back to my cottage, I met a handsome stranger.
“Do you need any help?” he asked, his voice low and smooth. Two dimples developed as his smile grew wide. His eyes were a russet brown, with a light golden ring around the centre.
I was too awestruck to respond, so he repeated his question.I have never been more embarrassed than in that moment.
“I—Uh—I—horse.” Those were the only words I could manage. Unable to construct a sentence, I pointed to Misty’s foot.
His eyes remained on me with a lopsided smile.
Surely people should worship a man this attractive in a city, handfeeding him fruit and pandering to his every wish and desire.
The stranger let out a small laugh, and I wonder if he could hear my thoughts. Blood rushed to my cheeks, and I lowered my head, hoping to hide it.
He pointed to Misty’s foot, asking if she had lost her shoe. I nodded, my mouth parched, words evading me.
“Follow me,” he said, taking hold of Misty’s reins.
Without a second thought, I did without question. With this naivety, I would be a murderer’s best friend, following handsome strangers into the dark of the night, giving them an easy kill.
We walked in awkward silence until we reached town. With everyone gone, the street had settled into a peaceful quiet.
“I’m Myles, by the way,” he said, looking at me, patiently waiting for a reply.
