Page 37

She wrinkles her nose at me like she’s upset, but the cobalt in her eyes shines brightly. “So what do I owe you?”

“It’s on the house. This time.” My eyes drop to her toes. “Now, we’ve got to do something about those sandals.”

She presses her feet together and wiggles her pink toenails. “Not horse appropriate?”

“Not exactly. Lucky for you, we at Horseshoe Holler are prepared for everything.”

This was one of the hazards the mayor had complained about—people wearing the appropriate shoes while riding.

It was a good thing to be aware of, just a nuisance. I’d gone above and beyond and bought over sixty pairs of boots of all different sizes, then sent the photo to the mayor with a passive aggressive comment. Something like, “I’m not sure if this is enough to cover my bases, but I sure am trying.”

Most people come prepared with hard-toe shoes, so buying this many boots was a waste of money. It did prove to shut the mayor up for a few months, so in the end, what I spent was worth it.

“I’m an eight-and-a-half,” Juliet says.

“I’m sure I’ve got one or two of that size laying around.”

I enter the side room where the boots are on display on long shelves, then I come out with a pair of turquoise-swirled Ariats and new socks still in their wrapping. “Complimentary socks, to boot.”

“Pun intended?” she asks, accepting the footwear.

“Always.”

She outfits herself, then eyes them. “They’re a bit big at the ends.”

“That’s the toe box. It’s so you can still move your feet. And so the horse doesn’t break your toes with his hooves.”

She looks up in alarm, and I smile to soften my words. “I wish I was joking.”

She releases a nervous laugh. “So...hat next?”

I dart within the side room again and come out a minute later with a black, velvet helmet and a cowgirl hat—things I’ve also acquired to accommodate guests and their needs. It’s a Stetson Skyline, made with dark fur felt with a silver buckle at the side. It’s always been a favorite of mine, though most women don’t choose it.

Hat hair and all.

“Since you’re older than seventeen this time”—I give her a look that says, luckily—“you get to choose between hard, protective helmet or cowgirl hat.”

“Hat,” she says instantly.

I was hoping she’d say that.

She puts it on. “How does it look?”

Pleasure stirs at the base of my stomach. It’s been a long time since I’ve been so attracted to someone.

“Very nice,” I manage.

I try to look away, but my eyes take her in, swallowing great, satisfying gulps of the beauty she serves up in her half-cowgirl glory.

She speaks of me being her high school fantasy when she just might become my cowgirl fantasy.

We leave the office and the stables behind to go outside where a few of my horses linger in the paddock nearby. They’re already by the fence, no doubt having been waiting for us since our arrival at the stables.

Juliet allows each of them to smell the back of her hand as they greet us.

“You can take your pick,” I say.

“I didn’t get to do that last time.”