Prologue
“Milo, for fuck’s sake, find out who she is and untwist those knickers of yours. Then maybe you can start hanging out with your family again.”
Spinning around from the giant windowpane stretching over the polo field I’m staring out of, I stare at my sister instead.Glare.I receive one in return, coupled with a challenge in her eye, one that’s always present, but becomes more prominent when she drinks.
We’re in that hazy week between Christmas and New Year’s, where you lose track of time and alcohol becomes acceptable at any hour.Bingo, I spy an almost empty bottle of champagne on the table between her and Haven.
“My knickers aren’t in a twist, Clementine.”
“Coulda fooled me.” She raises her glass, smirks, and takes a sip.
“Clem, leave him alone.”
My expression turns from annoyance to surprise when I look at Alex, because ninety percent of the time, he’s the one trying to wind me up. I’m genuinely taken aback that he’s leaping to my defense. “Thanks, Al.”
“Anytime, little brother.” He leans over and slaps a hand on my shoulder. “It must be hard for you . . . as the first time a woman rejects you has gotta sting. But it happens to the best of us.”
Hendricks—my identical twin—smirks, while Clementine and Alex guffaw at his pathetic joke. Haven giggles, and her hot friend, whom I only met an hour or so ago, joins in too.
I definitely don’t like her anymore.
I shrug off Alex’s hand. “Fuck off, the lot of you. I nearly died, it’s not a laughing matter, and she didn’t reject me—she tried tokill me.”
Ignoring Alex’s overly dramatic eye roll, I continue, “You were there, Al. She tried to mow me down with her pony. I only just jumped out of the way in time?—”
“And fell into the bush.”
I glare at Clementine again.
“Maybe she didn’t know it was you,” adds Hendricks.
I scoff. “Of course she did. Everyone knows me here. She saw me, and she tried to kill me.”
Clementine sits back in her chair and stretches her arms above her head. She lengthens out her neck from side to side, then yawns.
We touched down in Aspen a couple of hours ago, flying in from England for an impromptu New Year’s Eve celebration. We’re all a little tired and tipsy. Technically, it was supposed to be Alex and Haven’s holiday celebration, which the rest of us hijacked. As our family plane is big enough to fit the whole family and we haven’t spent New Year's skiing together in a while, I invited myself—and the rest of our siblings—to join them.
Maybe that’s why Alex is pissy.
“To be perfectly honest, Milo, I’m amazed that more women haven’t attempted to murder you already,” Clementine drawls.
I don’t bother to respond and turn back to the window, listening to my siblings snicker before resuming their respective conversations.
My eyes scan the field where eight polo ponies gallop up and down. Two teams of riders chase a bright pink ball across the snow, attempting to take control from their opposition and smack it between the goalposts at either end of the pitch. I’m not too familiar with the teams playing. The holiday games Aspen Polo Club puts on are for amateur and low-goal.
But I still can’t find the player I’m looking for.
It’s possible she’s a groom and was warming up the pony before the match, but even from the moment I locked eyes with her as I scrambled out of the hedge, she didn’t seem the groom type. There was too much arrogance flashing in her eyes, the kind I usually see on the field, powering toward me atop half a ton of horse.
It’s only on the third sweep that I spot her.
She’s not on the field, but almost below in a practice arena you can’t see into from the spectators’ stands. I, however, have a perfect view, and I don’t take my eyes off her.
A braid of thick, dark red hair bounces against her black shirt as she charges her pony up and down a series of practice maneuvers. In and out of cones packed so tight together, it reminds me of the agility courses set up at Crufts. Once through, she gallops to the end, spins, and races to hit ten balls all lined up in a row, before darting between the cones again.
They’re the same courses I used to set up for myself at Foxleigh.
A bubble of excitement stirs inside me. She rides with a fearlessness that needs refining. She turns too hard in the corners, and her elbows are sharp enough to cut a two by four, but the way she swings her mallet so it hits the ball dead center is nothing short of poetic. She’s an incredible rider.
