by Molly Harper, Stephanie Haefner, Liora Blake, Gabra Zackman, Andrea Laurence, Colette Auclair
“You told him I was cute—thanks for that, by the way. You told him he was hot. And ran your fingers through his hair and said it was . . . what was that word you used?” Harris feigned early Alzheimer’s. “Oh yes, I remember. Sexy.”
“Mortification is my new hobby.”
“Look on the bright side—you didn’t drool.”
“Thanks.” She took a gulp of her margarita.
“Seriously, don’t worry. Between you and me and the hummingbirds, he liked it.”
Amanda scowled at him. “Not, like, sexually?”
“More like he felt needed. Only instead of feeding starving children in Africa, he fed his riding instructor.” He paused, then added, “And let’s face it, he wasn’t exactly repulsed to see you in your skivvies. So there was a hot and heapin’ helpin’ of sexual sum’n sum’n there.”
Amanda dropped her head into her hands.
“What’s the biggie? You’re hot. He’s hot, like you said.” He imitated a Jewish grandmother and said, “Would it be so terrible if you hooked up?”
“Harris! Don’t even think that. And I’m not hot.”
He gave her a look that said, yeah, right.
Suddenly she slapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh God. I think I may have tried to kiss him.”
“Now, now. It’s not like you’re the first drug-addled sex kitten to come on to him in bed—sorry, sweetheart, but there are a few models, actresses, socialites, pro cheerleaders, Miss Universes, Olympic figure skaters, princesses, and groupies who beat you to it.”
She looked at him, knitting her brows together. “I didn’t mean to! Should I apologize? I feel like I should.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Besides, who doesn’t want that eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the room between the two of you?” Harris’s Caribbean-blue eyes gleamed.
“You suck,” Amanda said, and drained her margarita. “Hey, how was your cooking class thing?”
“In a word, delicious.” He refilled her glass from a pitcher as he spoke. “Ten students, which Alonso said was an excellent turnout. He said when you live on the streets, it can be hard to get to appointments. So for ten of the homeless to show up to learn to cook was huge.”
If Harris’s eyes had sparkled when he talked about Grady and her having sex, it was nothing compared to the wattage that lit them up now. He’d hardly mentioned the cooking class he wanted to start at a soup kitchen where he volunteered every Sunday, but when he did, he was even more excited than when the new issue of Vanity Fair came out. Despite what she thought of as his “gay bluster,” he was less concerned with alcohol, sex, and trappings than he was with giving back. He had come from a well-to-do Minneapolis family and his parents had instilled in him a sense of duty. “We have a lot, so we’re expected to give a lot,” his mother had told him when he’d complained about being dragged to visit a smelly nursing home when he was seven. But the lesson had stuck.
Harris spoke again. “Alonso is quite the scrumptious morsel as well. Did you know he makes birdhouses?”
Amanda smiled slowly. “He runs the soup kitchen, right?”
“Yep. Once in a while, when you show compassion for your fellow man, you’re rewarded with a fellow man.”
6
Amanda pulled up to the barn after visiting the feed store and found Wave and Solstice on the grass. Wave was practicing cartwheels and Solstice was lying on her stomach, a blade of grass between her thumbs, trying to make it squeak when she blew on it. It was nice to see kids who weren’t constantly texting. Amanda had left after the girls’ lesson, at least ninety minutes earlier. “Why are you still here?” She comically narrowed her eyes.
“We’re bored,” Wave said, heaving a huge sigh and rolling her eyes extravagantly.
“Our dad was supposed to take us bike riding, but then he said he couldn’t,” Solstice said.
“So what else is new?” Wave said, with a surprising amount of disgust for one who had only recently grasped rudimentary sarcasm.
“If you stay, I’ll put you to work,” Amanda warned.
“That’s okay,” Solstice said, and Amanda almost fell over.
Amanda wiggled her eyebrows and rubbed her hands together. “Slaves!” she said, and the girls laughed. They helped her pick up manure in the runs and smaller paddocks and clean the big black rubber stall mats. They ended their workday by cleaning out the big metal water troughs in the pasture, a chore that devolved into an all-out battle, resulting in two laughing, sopping-wet children and one laughing, sopping-wet adult.
As the trio returned to the house, Jacqueline intercepted them on the front stone patio like a heat-seeking missile. “I have been calling you girls for a half hour. Your father is waiting to take you to the dentist.”
Amanda looked at Solstice. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Forgot,” Solstice said absently. She marched into the house and Wave followed.
“Jacqueline, I—,” Amanda started, but a grumpy-looking Grady appeared in the doorway.
“Jacqueline,” Grady said, “would you please call Dr. Peters to see if she can still see them today? And apologize? Then make sure they change into dry clothes?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you.”
Jacqueline sent Amanda a look that could have withered all her petunias, then vanished into the house. Then it was Grady’s turn to regard Amanda.
She opted for a preemptive strike. “They didn’t tell me anything about the dentist.”
“Big surprise there. Why are they wet? Push-ups aren’t enough? Now you’re waterboarding?”
She studied his face to see if he was kidding. He wasn’t. What kind of thing was that to say? She swallowed, remembering that he was an irrational, overly emotional, novice horse at his first show and she needed to remain calm. “We were cleaning the troughs and one thing led to another . . . you know how it is.”
“Cleaning troughs? Horse troughs?”
“Unless Harris has one for vodka, which wouldn’t surprise me.” Not only did she not get a laugh, she didn’t even get a smile. Uh-oh.
“You made them clean troughs,” he said, as though making sure he’d heard her correctly.
“We had a great time.” She smiled, hands on her hips.
“Yeah? You had a great time giving them pneumonia?”
She stepped closer to him, opened her mouth to deliver a caustic snipe, then remembered he was overprotective. She again imagined him as the misbehaving horse, and figuratively rode through his bucking, which was based in fear. She rode him right up to the high road, which she took. “Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t know about the dentist. And they won’t get sick.”
“I set aside time specifically so I could take them. And because of you and your troughs, they’re going to be late—if they can even keep the appointment.”
Spoiled actor! Spoiled actor who expects everyone to jump when he pouts. She bit her lip until the urge to lash out passed. “I told you, I didn’t know.” Despite her resolve, her sense of being wrongly accused shot to the surface like a beach ball held under water. Before she could stop herself, she blurted, “But the only reason they were with me was because you bailed on the bike ride.”
He cocked his head and bore into her with his beautiful eyes. “I bailed on the—” He turned away from her and shook his head, then turned back. “You do think I’m a terrible father, don’t you? It wasn’t just the Percocet that night.”
He had to mention that night. She looked down, then away. “Excuse me,” she said quietly, “but I don’t see how this conversation is going to get them to the dentist any sooner. I have to go.” She started toward the barn. Leaving was her best option to keep from getting fired.
“Wait.” When she didn’t, she heard him behind her. He touched her shoulder and she turned to face him. “It’s not your fault. I apologize. I . . . It’s been a long day and . . . I lost my temper.”
He looked genuinely contrite. She felt her face relax and said simply, “Apology
accepted.” She sighed, turned, and continued down the hill.
“Amanda.”
She stopped without turning around.
He continued, “Jacqueline just told me the contractors will start on the floor tomorrow.”
She spun around, her defensiveness and anger gone. “No kidding?”
“No kidding.”
She ran up the hill and stopped in front of him, not sure what to do. She grabbed his forearms and squeezed. “Thank you.”
His lips curved into a small smile. For a split second she considered kissing that smile, but instead released his arms and jogged to the barn.
Grady Brunswick had been around the sexual block more times than the finest PricewaterhouseCoopers accountants could calculate, and he was positive that Amanda—his daughters’ strong-willed, independent, restrained, tenacious, sexy, distantly professional, argumentative, sometimes annoying, often alluring, Emmy-dropping riding instructor—had just come perilously close to kissing him. Over concrete. That was her aphrodisiac, the promise of a nonskid barn floor. But she had pulled out of the dive at the last minute, and he was left standing there, still feeling the heat of her hands on his forearms. He had been annoyed with her for making his girls miss their appointments, but he hadn’t missed the flat-out glee on their faces. They liked her. A lot.
And what did he think? Moments ago he would have happily throttled her, but that was his quick temper. His irritation drifted into intrigue. She had absolutely considered kissing him. It was nothing short of astounding because he knew her type—Little Miss Professional would sooner swallow glass than admit she was attracted to him, let alone make the first move.
She must really want that floor.
The following morning, while the girls trotted ground poles during their lesson, Amanda heard the sound she’d yearned for: the rumble of a truck full of rubber-brick flooring. She told the girls to keep practicing and practically jumped the fence to usher the crew into the barn. She was so happy, she almost started installing the bricks herself. Instead, she forced herself to get back to teaching.
Over the next several days, while the crew installed the floor, transformed a stall into a grooming/wash stall, adjusted the sconces, and raised the chandeliers, Solstice and Wave helped Amanda stack hay, clean the runs and pastures, drag the ring (by illegally sitting with her and driving), and other barn chores. She felt like she was running a horse camp for two—which a month ago would have seemed like a court-ordered punishment—but she enjoyed getting to know her charges. Children could be fun. In her experience, most children of wealth rode because they were expected to. Amanda had no idea what it was like to ride out of obligation. Teaching passionless kids was the worst part of her job. She admitted to herself that at first she had lumped Solstice and Wave into this category, but she had been wrong.
The girls liked riding, and she suspected Solstice loved it. They loved their horses. All they needed were a few boundaries, which really meant they craved someone to care about them enough to give a damn and give them structure. Kids needed structure, just like horses. Kids needed a dependable routine—just like horses. They needed the security structure provided, and when Amanda considered the girls’ lives—no mother, a string of nannies, and a guilt-ridden father who loved them but was rarely home—she understood why riding was making such a difference. She required the girls to be accountable and responsible, perhaps for the first time in their lives. Their horses counted on them. They had a routine that someone else dictated. And, Amanda realized with a start, Solstice and Wave knew they could count on her. She provided stability. They trusted her and felt safe. They could relax and be themselves instead of constantly testing the rules and rebelling.
After she sent the girls home from a day at Camp Amanda, she showered and pulled on jeans and a sleeveless blouse, nothing fancy, but not all barned out, either. She dried her hair for as long as she could stand—Amanda didn’t get how women could happily fuss with hair and makeup for hours. Disappointed with her tomboy daughter, Amanda’s mother had ruefully told her to be thankful for her peaches-and-cream complexion, since she could get away without makeup. Her mother was like a highly bred Arabian in a conformation class—every hair in place, shiny and pristine, faults camouflaged and gifts enhanced.
This was part of the reason Amanda wasn’t devastated when her mother divorced her father and moved to Oregon—they had little in common. She loved Tracy Vogel; she just didn’t need her. They were more like polite acquaintances than close relatives. Her mother didn’t understand her obsession with horses, her desire to ride in the Olympics, or her love for Edelweiss, the horse she had trained from scratch, won her first grand prix on, and then had to sell as a last resort when she was flat broke that winter. Her mother was a beautiful, stylish woman who craved quiet order, and Amanda’s gregarious father eventually wore her down.
Thoughts of her mother always sobered her. She sighed and mentally vowed to call her mom that weekend. She put on silver jumping-horse earrings and a matching necklace, then left her apartment.
As she stepped onto the terracotta-colored rubber pavers that covered the aisle, she bounced up and down, testing their spring. She grinned as she knelt and pressed her fingers into the flooring, appreciating its sponginess. The horses would finally get to walk in their own barn. The barn was safer, more functional, and even more of a showplace. The girls enjoyed their lessons. She wasn’t currently annoyed with her employer. Things at Aspen Creek were looking up.
There was just one more detail to take care of.
7
You bought them a cat?” Harris asked that night at seven thirty as he poured an emerald green liquid into a martini glass.
“What’s this?”
“Say bonjour to the Mintini. Gets you buzzed while keeping your breath kissably fresh. It’s the perfect date drink.”
Amanda lifted the glass.
“Hang on, drunko.” Harris deftly placed a mint sprig in her glass. He wore a black designer shirt and khaki shorts, and looked, as always, effortlessly chic.
She sipped. “Yum.”
Harris and Amanda sat on their usual chaises on the patio, with freshly made bruschetta, various cheeses, and champagne grapes on the table. “I didn’t buy a cat. I adopted a cat. Well, two cats. And I didn’t get them for the girls, I got them for the barn. It’s un-American to have a barn without cats.”
Harris shifted his gaze beyond her to the sliding door. “Damn, Brunzy, you could’ve showered.”
Grady grinned as he crossed the patio toward them. He wore faded jeans, a gray T-shirt, and a day’s worth of stubble. His hair was damp and tousled and his feet were bare. Amanda looked up and stopped breathing. He was the sexiest thing she had ever seen. Don’t stare! She gazed into the depths of her Mintini.
“I just did, you jerk,” Grady said.
Her mind, which had possibly just shaken hands with the first molecules of vodka, unhelpfully provided a movie of Grady Brunswick showering.
“Amanda,” Grady said, a touch formally.
“Hi.” It was all she trusted herself to say.
“Pull up a Mintini.” Harris glanced conspiratorially at Amanda, as she had asked him to invite Grady to their cocktail hour. She’d assumed Grady would decline because he had to meet with his agent or, oh, sleep with the president of his fan club. But here he was, sitting sideways on a chaise and accepting a Mintini.
“Is this Scope?” He wrinkled his nose as he sniffed the drink.
Harris rolled his eyes. “You can have a beer after you finish, my little Neanderthal.”
Amanda was astounded to find her heart rate quickening. She was such a cliché! A good-looking—okay, make that great-looking—guy sits near her and she’s stupid-attracted. But she had to give herself a break, since looking sexy was a big chunk of his job and it wasn’t her fault that her body and brain reacted. And he was famous. She tried looking down at the flagstones, but his feet were there, and they were downright sculpt-able. They we
re long and slender, masculine and tan, with perfect toes. How pathetic. She couldn’t even look at his feet! She had to get out more. She tilted her head back and emptied her glass.
“A Mintini for your thoughts.” Harris gave her a refill.
“How’s your back?” Grady asked, looking directly at her. She wasn’t ready for eye contact quite yet, let alone a sympathetic question. But, really, she had to stop acting like a teenager scoping boys at the mall.
“Fine. Fully recovered. Good as new.” Shorter sentences were easier in her addled state.
“Good.” He nodded. “Carlos worked his magic?” Carlos was his massage therapist, who had paid a house call—barn call?—to Amanda that week.
“Yes, he was great. Thank you again.” She paused before continuing. “Which reminds me.” She set her glass on a small nearby table and leaned forward. He was sitting about a foot across from her, and she forced herself to meet his gaze no matter how unnerving. She took a deep breath. “Thank you for fixing the barn. It looks . . . the floor is beautiful, the horses love it, and the grooming stall is perfect. Have you seen it? They did a great job. And I just wanted to thank you. I know I was kind of a nag about it, but once you see it, I think you’ll agree it was worth it.” And without thinking, she reached over and squeezed his hand.
His lips quirked and the corners of his eyes crinkled. He did that a lot.
Grady looked at Harris, who was sitting next to Amanda, then stage-whispered, “She’s very excited about the floor.”
“She loves floors,” Harris said.
Grady looked at her. “You’re welcome.” He put his hand on her knee and lowered his voice. “You’re not going to slip and fall again, are you?”
“Not a chance.” He was being charming, so she looked at the patio stones and twirled a strand of hair around her forefinger. There was no way she could look into his eyes. Not with his hand feeling like the sun on her knee and vodka warm in her bloodstream.