“Sure, babe, what’s going on?”
“I’ll tell you when I get there.”
“Okay. I might be out in the fields, but the last stable on the left is open. You can use that one. If you come in through the side entrance, no one will ask any questions.”
“Thanks, I’ll be there in an hour.”
“Sit tight, Mav.” I drop a kiss on his nose and rush to the groom’s room, where I sleep above the stables.
Shoving everything I own into one small backpack, I sprint back to where Maverick is patiently waiting, tack him up, and lead him out. No one notices me leaving. I peer over at Scott’s office in case he’s looking out the window, but I see nothing. I don’t bother to turn around when we make our way out of the entrance gates and begin the six-mile hack.
For the next two hours, I try to figure out a way out of my situation—homeless, stable-less, jobless—but I come up blank. In the years since I left home to play polo, I’ve prided myself on my ability to land on my feet no matter the adversity, but if I’m being honest with myself, I can’t see a way out this time. Andthatis scary.
All the knocks I’ve taken have left permanent dents. I’m starting to wonder if maybe I need to reconsider my future, because all I’ve learned is that polo players are assholes, and money doesn’t buy you happiness. I only need Maverick for that.
As instructed, I take the side path to the entrance around the back, where I dismount and let Maverick take a long drink of water from the trough. It’s busy for a Tuesday—there’s a group of kids having a lesson in the outdoor school, while several older teenagers are brushing down their ponies before tacking them up. The main stable block is awash with enough activity. It givesme a little hope that they’re busy enough to need an extra set of hands, and I can buy myself time.
Once he’s finished drinking, I lead Maverick along the cobbles and down to the end stable. Inside, I find a very inviting fresh bed of straw, at which Maverick lets out a series of loud whinnies of approval and trots inside. The minute I have his tack off, he eases down and rolls over before curling up like an oversized cat.
Dropping my backpack in the corner, I join him on the straw, leaning into his massive body as I stroke under his ears and think.
Much to my chagrin, McTavish’s parting words are going around and around my brain. It’s true. Miles Burlington is a heavyweight in the world of polo and could kill any prospects of getting a job in another yard again.
I believe he’s that much of a dick. Truth be told, I’m surprised he hasn’t found me already and gotten me fired after his hosing down at New Year’s.
Even though I only met him the one time, his reputation precedes him.
Arrogant. Egotistical. Womanizer.
Ruthless on the field, lethal with a mallet, and no stranger to dirty tactics. Just like the rest of them.
Easing out my phone, I pull up Google to remind myself he deserved that soaking.
Most Talented Polo Player of this Generation
Miles Burlington Moves To Nine In the New Year Rankings
Miles Burlington Makes A Spectacular Save To Score Winning Goal
Miles Burlington is People’s Sexiest Man—Sports Edition
Alongside the headlines, pictures flood my screen—chiseled jaw, a smile that seems to melt the panties off the stupidest of women, and eyes bluer than the summer skies.Ugh.That’s enough of that.I put my phone away.
But my brain is reluctant to switch off.
I mean,sure, he’s hot in that stupid, conceited way with his thick, dark curls flopping strategically over his forehead, like you know he’s done it on purpose. Polo playersarehot. Look up the definition in the dictionary, and you’ll see a line of top goal players. They’re ten a penny, especially during high season, so I don’t know why everyone loses their shit for Miles Burlington.
“He’s nothing special,” I tell a sleepy Maverick and let out a chuckle, remembering the look of horror when the cold water hit him. The chuckle turns into a huge yawn.
Quitting your job, packing up your worldly belongings, and hacking six miles is more tiring than it sounds. Leaning farther down into his soft belly, my eyes slowly close, and I give in to a quick power nap.
I’m drifting in and out of sleep when a flurry of rushed footsteps and excited whispers passes by the stable.
“Miles Burlington?—”
“Did you know he’s an English Lord?—”
“Did you see him?”
