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He took the reins from me, and moved them out of the way. “You ever ride before?”
“Ah, a couple times here and there. It’s been a while.”
He nodded, moving his hand up to grip the saddle. I couldn’t help but notice how big it was, easily twice the size of my own.
“We’re gonna go left. You want to rise up, take your right foot out of the stirrup and grip the cantle here at the same time.”
I nodded, then followed his directions.
“Great, now swing your leg over, careful not to knock into Storm. Perfect.”
I swooped my leg over and hopped down, but as I tried to get my left leg out of the stirrup, it got caught and I stumbled the tiniest bit. Heat flooded my cheeks in embarrassment before I even got a chance to catch myself, but it didn’t matter anyway as I found my back up against a large, warm wall of Gray Anderson.
His arms wrapped around my midsection, steadying me. “Whoa, there. You okay?”
“Yep,” I squeaked out. My butt was touching his junk. How was I to ever recover from this?
I looked down to see his hands splay out, touching my stomach and gliding to my hips. A ribbon of electricity followed his touch. It all happened so fast. It didn’t seem intentional, or like he was taking advantage. In fact, it seemed almost . . . instinctual.
I turned around in his arms to see his Adam’s apple bob with a thick swallow. His height was so great that I had to tilt my head back and look upward to even see that. My throat was suddenly as dry as the Sahara.
“Sorry,” he grunted, but left his hands where they were for another moment.
“Thanks for catching me,” I managed to croak out.
He nodded and finally (finally? More like tragically) removed his hands and took a step back. He studied me for a moment, his eyes scanning my body—whether in manly appreciation, or to ensure I wasn’t going to fall on my butt, I couldn’t tell—and then turned to go assist the others off their horses.
I took a deep breath and shook out my hands to get some blood flowing to my extremities.
This was not me. I was Eryn Fucking Blake. Not that I thought I was a big deal or anything, but to other people I was. And that meant I met a lot of them. People from all walks of life, of course, but also people who normally intimidated others. Tech bros, professional athletes, movie stars, royalty, even a President or two. And I never fumbled like I just did with Gray.
No, I was normally the epitome of grace. I was naturally an extrovert. I could talk to anyone, and lead the conversation, and never once feel nervous or unsure. But this man took one brooding look at me and all of a sudden, my knees buckled. I wasn’t sure if this meant I should stay the hell away from him, or lean into it. I knew which way my body wanted to go.
“Eryn, this is the most beautiful place I’ve ever seen!” Zaya gushed as she approached me. The others were close behind, apparently none suffering from the same clumsiness as I had.
“I’m in love with it,” I said, watching the water.
Skylar bounced forward, her excitement leading her. “What are we waiting for? I’m going in!”
Enzo followed, chasing her to the edge of the water. They quickly stripped off their clothes, revealing their swimsuits underneath, and jumped in with delighted squeals.
“You coming?” Zaya asked.
“Yep, I’ll be right there. You go on.”
She nodded and left to join them.
I grabbed my phone from the bag attached to Storm’s saddle and began to take photos of the trees and the falls. The usual instinct to immediately post one didn’t come like it usually did. Instead, I thought about how nice these would look framed on a wall.
I didn’t have any personal photos or artwork in my house in LA. I was never there long enough to make it mine. A designer had furnished it before I moved in. Every last item in that house felt like someone else’s, like I was just borrowing them all for the time being.
I’d never thought about it before, but that must have something to do with my restlessness, right? Feeling like I didn’t have a real home? One that I’ve filled with cherished photos and memories and things to make me smile?
I thought of the homes I’d grown up in, the professionally designed showrooms destined for the pages of Architectural Digest. Always carefully curated by someone on my father’s payroll. Even Christmas decor was made to be a work of art rather than a holiday celebration. When I’d moved out, I didn’t take a single thing with me, except my clothes and toiletries. Nothing was meaningful. Nothing was a memory.
I made a mental note to talk about that in therapy and clicked a photo of my friends splashing in the water.
“Eryn get over here, the water is like 35 degrees, but so worth it!” Skylar shouted.
