Like now, when I hear my name for the second time, and my gaze jerks away from Miles’s thick thigh inches from mine and back to Hendricks.
“Ruby, tell me about yourself. Miles didn't have much to share.”
“Well, considering we only met properly two days ago, that's unsurprising.”
Next to me, Miles chuckles.
“Where are you from?”
I'm tempted to say that we really don’t have to delve into my childhood, because there’s truly nothing of interest to share, but I get the impression he actually wants to know. It’s bizarre how two identical people can have such different energies. Hendricks is quieter, whereas it’s obvious Miles needs to be the life and soul of a party.
“I’m from Iowa. I have two older brothers. My dad’s a farmer?—”
Miles tips his head toward me. “Hey, same as us?—”
“Yeah, okay.Sure.” He barely gets his sentence out before I scoff.
I’ve never seen anyone look less like a farmer. Or from the world of farming—weathered, tired, a little bit beaten. Years ofbeing in the polo world have taught me what money looks like, and these guys aren’t just money, they’remoneymoney.
Not the kind you get from farming unless you own—say—the whole of Montana. Or Idaho.
“Weare,” Hendricks pushes. “Our elder brothers run the operations side of the business, but it’s been in our family for generations. I’m a vet.”
“Aveterinarian?” I repeat, because again, Hendricks is the least vet-looking guy I’ve ever seen. That watch he’s wearing costs close to a hundred grand, and you’re not going to be sticking that up a cow’s backside.
“Yup, I’m?—”
“We have Aberdeen Angus, a thousand sheep, chickens . . . ponies,” says Max, who’s working his way through a bowl of spaghetti. “Um, what do you have on your farm?”
“My dad farms corn.”
Max’s little face scrunches in confusion. “Like corn on the cob?”
I nod. “Exactly like that.”
“You don’t have any cows?”
I shake my head, purposely pulling my mouth down at the corners, and pouting my bottom lip. “Nope. Not that we farm, just a couple for . . .” I’m about to say eating, but think better of it.
“Oh, that’s sad.”
“It sure is. I think I’d like some sheep.” I laugh, as a thought occurs to me. “I guess Miles isn’t what I thought he was.”
“What did you think he was?”
“An ass?—”
Story barks out a laugh. “He’s definitely that.”
“You aren’t a horse family?” presses Hendricks.
“She taught herself to ride. And play polo,” Miles says before his brother finishes asking his questions, which are basically“what’s a small-town girl like you doing hanging with us?” I get it. He’s protective, and he’s going about it with way more tact than that crusty lawyer.
But I’m focusing on Miles now because, and I can’t tell for sure, but it sounds like there’s an undertone of admiration in his voice.
“You must be good if Miles is giving you a shot,” he adds.
“Um. . .” I search for the words I’ve never lacked when selling my skills, but I’m rendered speechless, and my cheeks heat. Coupled with what Story said earlier—about him being phenomenal—it’s the first time I’ve ever had anyone compliment me. Anyone evernoticeme. Validate me.
