by Melissa West
A fresh wave of self-pity washed over her as she realized, no, it couldn’t, and she was wondering if there was any ice cream in the fridge she could dip her doughnuts in when she heard a knock, followed by the doorbell ringing. Crap fire. She was in no way presentable enough to take a delivery from Annie’s obsessed mailman, who hadn’t quite gotten the hell-no memo Annie’d sent him.
Deciding to ignore it, she turned up the volume on the TV. Marty could leave it on the front porch. But the knocking persisted, and finally she had no choice but to wrap her grandma robe tightly around her and trudge to the door.
Without looking, she threw it open, prepared to let the mailman have it. This crush of his was interfering with Emery’s miserable afternoon. “Look, Marty, she’s not home. You can—” But her words cut short at the sight of the man before her. So not short and stocky Marty.
Instead, she took in the tall, lean frame. The loose jeans hung low on his hips, the flannel shirt rolled to his elbows, the Atlanta Braves cap containing a mess of wavy brown hair. Her hands went to her own messy hair, her worse-than-no-makeup face. Had she even brushed her teeth today? Yes, she thought—she hoped.
“This is not at all how I pictured this moment.”
A smile played at Trip’s lips, and he reached down for the tie to her robe, gripping each end in his hands. “How did you picture it?”
“What?” Ah, crap, she hadn’t realized she’d said that out loud.
“Can I come in?”
Emery peered down at her yucky robe and bare legs because she couldn’t be bothered to put on pants, only a T-shirt and the robe.
“I’m not really . . .” she trailed off, her eyes finding his. Bless the gods of warm chocolate eyes.
“Please.”
“Um, okay, sure. Come in.”
She led Trip into the family room and sat on the couch, crossing her legs up under her as he took in the tissues, the doughnuts—the romantic movie paused on the screen.
“I’m assuming Beckett didn’t take it very well?”
Emery offered a sarcastic laugh. “If by well you mean calling me a liar, telling me he didn’t know me anymore, and kicking me out, then yes, he took it splendidly well.” She reached for another tissue, but Trip got there first, sitting beside her as he dabbed her eyes.
“Why are you doing this?” she asked. “Why are you here?”
He opened his mouth twice before speaking, as though he wasn’t quite sure himself. “I have something to show you.” He walked over to the TV and peered around the sides, then, seeming to spot something he’d hoped to see, grinned and returned to the couch to sit beside her. When she didn’t argue at his nearness, he pulled out his phone and clicked on the Roku app, then searched until he was on YouTube.
Glancing over at her with his penetrating stare, he said, “I know you feel lost right now. I know without Beckett beside you, you’re questioning why you’re doing this, what it all means. But it was never about Beckett. This has always been about you, your gift, and you’ve earned the right to see it through. You can’t quit. Not now. You’re too good to quit.” Then he typed in the search field and clicked for the video to start.
Music filled the air, and then she was watching her first race, her first win, the first time she’d crossed the finish line at the Kentucky Oaks. Race after race appeared on the screen, her heart bursting with each second. She leaned in closer to the TV, captivated by the athlete she’d once been. And then the final race filled the screen, the Saratoga maiden she’d just run, and her chest heaved with emotion. Because this race, her first race back from the dead, had beaten her best time from before, the year she’d considered the best of her life until the accident. Part of that was Craving Wind, who by all accounts was a machine of a horse that might function as well with any jockey. But maybe not. Maybe she was a piece of the winning puzzle.
The final race replayed, and then the video ended and she caught the words Hamilton Stables below the video, and suddenly her heart soared for different reasons. “You did this?” She turned to him, her feelings out of control. Her thoughts out of control. All she knew was that she wanted to kiss him, long and hard, until he knew how much this meant to her. But she couldn’t—he’d said no. Why did he have to say no?
“I needed you to remember who you are. Who you were born to be.” He cupped her face, trailing his thumb over her cheek, sending a zing through her body that felt a lot like hope. “Who you are to me.” And then, before she could question what he meant, he covered her mouth with his, all the want they’d felt for each other taking over, refusing to let go. The kiss skipped sweet and went straight for holy-God-above-I’d-die-happy intense, and Emery’s body responded, heat pooling low in her belly, sinking lower until she was sure she’d explode.
She rose onto her knees and he pulled her into his lap, straddling his waist, her robe falling open, nothing between her and the rigidness of his jeans but a thin strip of silk panties and a T-shirt. He gripped her hips and tugged her closer, allowing her to feel his need as his hands wrapped around her ass, and then in one quick move, he had her on her back on the couch, him over her, one hand bracing himself up while the other explored every reachable inch of skin.
She ran her hands under his shirt, gently stroking the sharp contours of his abs, his pecs, and then he released the sexiest sound she’d ever heard when her fingertips went across his nipple, and she thought, forget the risk of heartbreak. She wanted this man, right here and right now. No more delays.
“Emery . . .”
“Don’t stop. Don’t you dare stop.”
All the prompting he needed; he lifted her up and eased off her robe and shirt and lay her back, taking in her naked chest, then her face, holding her gaze. “Damn . . . you are so beautiful.”
She stopped her work at unbuttoning his shirt, growing frustrated by how very little she had on when he was still fully clothed. After all, she’d seen her body. It was his body that filled her dreams.
“A little help here,” she said, gripping the shirt, “or I’m not sure these buttons are going to survive the afternoon.”
Trip’s lips quirked up. “Do you have a room here?”
She motioned to the hall running beside the TV. “Third door on the right. It’s—” But before she could continue, he swept her into his arms and started down the hall, shutting the door behind him, the shirt off so quickly she wondered if he’d ripped it off. And then he was there in front of her, bare chest cut to absolute perfection, jeans unbuttoned, a wicked look on his face, but she had to be sure. Lust could make a person make mistakes, and she didn’t want to be his mistake.
“You said we couldn’t do this,” she said, fighting to keep from drooling as he pushed his jeans to the floor and stepped out of them.
“I actually said we shouldn’t.” He slowly strutted toward her, taking her hand and kissing her palm, then the inside of her wrist. “But I’ve never been good at doing what I’m supposed to do. And I’m tired of pretending when I’m around you. Talking when I want to be doing this.” He pressed his lips to her neck, trailing up to her jaw.
“And your family?”
Trip pulled away to look at her. “Have you changed your mind?”
“I have wanted you since I was seventeen years old, long before you were the Trip Hamilton, manly horse whisperer. I want this. But I need to know you aren’t going to regret me in the morning.”
Trip took a step away from her and peered down. “I don’t make mistakes, Emery. I make decisions, and then I handle the consequences of those decisions, but I never make mistakes. And certainly not with you.”
“But—”
“Do you remember when your dad first got Broken Fence? You were sitting in a nearby pasture, watching, your hands clasped together in excitement. You’d been with him at the auction. I still remember your smile when Beckett won him, and I knew then, staring at you instead of the horse, that there would never be another woman like you. I’ve never seen another woman the way
I see you.”
“But you left.”
Trip hesitated.
And it was then Emery knew that he hadn’t wanted to leave. Something had happened. “Tell me.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
“Please . . . tell me.”
He hung his head. “All right, but you should know you have me in a pretty vulnerable state here.” She smiled, so he continued. “Mr. Sampson asked me to leave. Said he would tell Beckett if I didn’t go quietly.”
She sucked in a breath. “He . . . I . . . but that wasn’t his decision to make.”
“You were seventeen and I was twenty, working for your dad. Worshipping your dad. He taught me everything I know. I couldn’t let him find out like that. So I left. But you never left me. You were always right here.” He tapped the space over his heart. “Eight years, and not a day went by that I didn’t wish I’d stayed. Don’t make me stay away now.”
Emery took a step toward him, closing the distance he’d made. “Your reputation . . .”
“Is just that—mine. Let me worry about it.” When she didn’t say anything, he ran his fingers through her hair, gently tugging the ends so her head tilted back. “I don’t want to talk anymore. Do you?”
She shook her head, and he swooped in, pressing her to him, unable to get close enough. He lay her back, staring down at her once again, the wicked look in his eyes enough to make her explode right there, but then he was over her again, kissing a trail up her legs, stopping to press a hard kiss to her mound over her panties. “I’m taking these off now.” The words were not a question but a statement of ownership. For that moment, that day and night, she was his.
She closed her eyes, drawing a long calming breath, and heard the crinkle of their protection, then she gasped as he drove deep inside her. She expected it to turn fast, rough and controlling like the man inside her. But instead his gaze locked on hers and they moved in unison, enjoying each slow thrust, careful to watch for what made her tense and what made her moan with pleasure. It was then she knew Trip was more than a skilled lover but a man who cared for her—as she cared for him.
The realization nearly knocked the wind out of her, and seeing the change, Trip sped up, both of them no longer able to handle the emotions swirling through them, all around them, taking them into this dangerous unknown.
Emery clung to him as they came together, and then Trip pulled her to him, her face pressed against his chest, listening to the sound of his heart, her own aching as she realized her feelings weren’t merely feelings. Not at all.
They were love.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Homestretch
Trip woke to the feel of a warm body pressed against his chest, the same warm body who’d been pressed against him for days now, and he was enjoying every minute of it.
But the day was already long begun, and he had a list from here to California that wasn’t going to handle itself. He shifted, gently pulling his arm out from under Emery, and stared down at her asleep in his bed, looking like she belonged there.
Then the memory of their last race hit him, and a sinking feeling worked through his gut. They’d won—barely. Craving Wind’s times were getting slowly worse with each race, and though he was still a contender for the Derby, he was no longer the favorite, slipping to second, even third on some of the more prominent sites.
He continued to think about it as he showered and got ready for the day, worry weighing heavy on his shoulders. Trip’s father hadn’t said anything yet, but he knew it was coming, could feel it in the air, which was why he’d avoided him at every turn, staying busy working the other horses, getting them ready for their own races or coordinating transfer to the track if he thought the horse could compete. He could handle his father, but he couldn’t force Sarah Anderson to use Emery if she was against it. He worked for her, not the other way around.
In short, one part of his life shone with happiness and the other had taken a nosedive. But maybe the worst part of it all was the sadness he saw in Emery’s face every time she took the mount before a race, the long look as she glanced around, like she hoped Beckett would be there, even though they both knew he wasn’t and wouldn’t be. Beckett hadn’t spoken so much as a word to Emery since the fight over the Saratoga race, and though Trip had picked up the phone to call him a hundred times himself, each time he set it back down.
Family was family, and he had no right to interfere unless she asked him to. Plus, he still had far too much respect for Beckett to call him out on his behavior, even though he felt he was being a royal dick about the whole thing. So she lied? She did it to protect him as much as anything. Why couldn’t he see that? She knew that his seeing her back on the track would hurt him, so she did it without him having to see. In her own twisted way, she was saving him from the pain. But Beckett could only see the betrayal—her racing for Trip . . . instead of him.
“Hey there, where are you going?” Emery asked, her voice still foggy from sleep. Trip leaned down to kiss her, pulled back, then kissed her again, closing his eyes and enjoying the feel of her lips on his.
“I have a meeting with Mayor Phillips.”
Emery nodded, and though he could tell she wanted to ask more, she didn’t. It was one of the things he loved most about her. Wait ... what was that? Love? The word hit him so suddenly he nearly missed it, and as he retraced his thoughts, he found himself turning away, his heart creeping into his throat. Shit. When did that happen?
“Trip?”
He cleared his throat, but it’d gone as dry as the Sahara Desert and wasn’t thinking of working anytime soon. So he forced himself to look her in the eye, because he was a man after all, not a coward, and this was only a word—it didn’t mean anything. They hadn’t said anything. There was no risk of marriage or disappointment—or losing her.
He thought of his mother dying and the brokenness of his father, then Nick losing Brit, and Mayor Phillips being unable to get out of bed for all those months, and Trip thought he might pass out right there. He’d made the commitment to focus on his career, never letting anyone in, never exposing himself to the pain he saw all around him. Yet Emery had broken through his walls all over again, curled right up against him like she fit there—was meant to be there, and damn if he didn’t want her to stay.
With a long sigh, he kissed her again. “Hang out as long as you need. I’ll be back later this afternoon.” Then he turned from the room before he did something really asinine. Like say the word out loud.
Trip parked outside town hall and went on in, unsure exactly why Mayor Phillips had called the emergency meeting, but since there had been that one true emergency last year and he’d skipped it because of all the fake ones, he’d vowed to be here when the good mayor called.
He waved to a few of the office staff and then continued on to the conference room to find the rest of the trustees already there, all of them staring his way like they’d been waiting for him. Hesitating at the door, he peered from one to the other, stopping at Mayor Phillips. “Is there something I should know?”
“Hello, Trip. How are you today?”
“Um . . . fine. What’s this about, Mayor?”
Mayor Phillips leaned in, his hands laced on the table, his expression serious. “We were hoping you could run interference.”
“On . . . ?”
Mayor Phillips turned over a piece of paper in his hand and pushed it toward Trip. “Annie-Jean Carlisle has opened a bakery in Crestler’s Key.”
Trip cocked his head, like he was missing something important. “All right. And how does that involve us?” Or, more accurately, him, but he knew better than to call that out. To the people in that room, Triple Run was one giant family, one joined community.
“She’s seeking to expand into Triple Run, which has Patty in fits.”
“Plus,” Hayden Christian added, his forehead crinkled from overthinking, “how would we know where to go in the mornings if there were two bakeries?”
The rest of
the group agreed, and Trip wondered if he had slipped into one of those old sitcoms. “So, let me get this straight,” he said, taking a seat in front of them. “This is the emergency? Two women feuding over a small misunderstanding from more than thirty years ago?”
This time it was Agatha Saint who spoke up. “It isn’t small to them, Trip.”
True enough. “What are you wanting me to do?”
“Well, we were hoping you could talk to Emery and have her ask Annie-Jean to stay in Crestler’s Key. Patty will stay here, and everything will be fine.”
He shook his head while everyone around the table nodded. “But why would Emery listen to me?”
All eyes found the table except the mayor’s. “Well, because of your relationship, of course. Or has that ended? Charlotte—” He glanced over to the woman, who seemed to find her necklace very interesting all of a sudden. “Um . . . we heard you were still together. Is that the case?”
Trip couldn’t believe an emergency town meeting had been called to discuss his relationship. An emergency! He opened his mouth to chastise them for this silliness, but then he caught the concern on all their faces, and though these meetings drove him crazy, though the town drove him crazy, he loved it—and all the quirky people in it.
What the hell? Trip jumped up, his heart in his throat. Dammit. There it was again. That word. Like it was placed in his chest by the devil himself, eager to drag Trip down to his personal hell.
“Are you okay, son?” Mayor Phillips asked, but Trip was sure he was seeing stars at this point, sweat building at the base of his back.
Freaked out on more levels than one, Trip spun around. “Sorry, I uh, I have to be somewhere.”
He started for the door when Hayden called out, “But what about the bakery?”
“Set up a meeting with Annie-Jean and Patty. It’s time they hash this out.”
“But what about you? Where are you going?”
Trip stopped inside the office and peered back around at them. “I just . . . need a little air.” And a heart transplant, apparently, so he could stop all this loving before it buried him.