“If you think you’ll struggle with that, you can use the block mount.” Carly pointed to the large steps resembling an Olympic awards podium behind them.
Owen froze, crossed his arms over his chest, and stared at her. The woman was out to emasculate him.
“Sorry. Habit. Forget I mentioned it.” Carly waved a hand toward the horse as if granting him permission to proceed.
“Don’t be too upset, son. She’s a worrier. Most women in fields that care for folks are.” Dennis sauntered to the horse and grabbed the lead rope. When Owen joined him, the older man leaned closer, and patted him on the back in a universal gesture of male sympathy.
Worrying about him, he could handle. Carly leading him around, like a child who couldn’t control his own horse, stung.
Then ignore what she does and concentrate on how fine her ass looks in those skinny jeans she’s wearing. Remember how her cheeks turn the prettiest shade of pink when you get her riled up, and how her body felt right in your arms.
That was the last thing he should do after he’d promised to treat her like any therapist. He almost laughed when the image of Gunther, his short, burly, bald German physical therapist popped into his head. Just the thought of the man in tight jeans would give him nightmares.
Owen smiled. While he agreed Carly was hands off, that didn’t mean he couldn’t have a little fun. Every man needed a hobby, and he’d found the perfect one in riling Carly.
Owen patted the horse’s neck. “I’m counting on you a lot, too, pal.” Then he grabbed the saddle horn, shoved his booted left foot into the stirrup, and said a quick prayer he didn’t end up on his ass in the dirt. He pulled upward and shifted his weight to the stirrup. Muscles strained at the once familiar movement, but he ended up in the saddle.
Confident, excited, and decidedly thankful to have mounted on his own, he glanced down at Carly. “All set and all in for whatever you’ve got in mind, Carly.”
Color swept across her face. Her ears bright red, her eyes widened, and she swallowed a couple times.
Who needed golfing, or restoring a car? His teasing and tempting Carly hobby beat the hell outta those.
Chapter Seven
Owen practically sawthe gears turning in Carly’s head as she balanced the pleasure of tossing out a jab to put him in his place versus the cost to her director image with Dennis if she ignored his comment.
“Have Whiskey make a loop around the arena. After that, head for the rings on the west side,” she said, her voice stiff and tinged with annoyance.
He wished he’d put money on the ignore choice, as he flicked the reins and set off. The horse’s gentle rhythm settled his ragged nerves, bringing a familiar calm he hadn’t felt in a long while. He hadn’t gone more than thirty feet when Carly said to make a right turn.
The moment he transferred his attention to the reins and directeding the horse, his balance wobbled. He shifted his weight left, but overcorrected, sending him wavering in the opposite direction. Damn. After boasting he didn’t need help, he’d never live it down if he ended up on his ass five minutes after therapy started. He pulled back on the reins to slow the horse. Then he worked on righting his course, straightening his posture and staying in the saddle while Dennis grabbed his belt buckle offering extra support.
“I was joking about being unable to walk and chew gum at the same time, but now I’m not so sure,” Owen said. “Guess I owe you that beer, Dennis.”
Dennis chuckled and his hand returned to Owen’s ankle. “It’ll get easier. The first day’s always the toughest.”
“Try the turn again,” Carly said.
More prepared, Owen checked his posture before directing the horse and executed the turn. On the straight away, Carly asked, “Do you remember the horse’s name?”
“No.”
Damn. How could he remember in vivid detail every touch, every glance, every word Carly said? He remembered how she looked in the tack room, with her hair tangled from his hands running through it and her lips rose red from his kisses, but not the blasted horse’s name? Before the bomb dumped a wall on his head, he could’ve recited a damn near transcription version of their conversations since arriving at the ranch.
“Early on, your best coping mechanism is writing down information, but if you can’t immediately do that, try making an association to remember,” she said. “For example, this handsome boy’s name is Whiskey, so associating him with your favorite whiskey could trigger his name.”
Now he understood why he remembered what Carly said in the tack room. What occurred meant enough to get burned in his permanent memory.
The session continued with him working around the ring with Carly giving simple directions. When they returned, she asked, “Do you remember what I said to do after you took a turn around the ring?”
He tossed her his I-can’t-believe-you’re-asking-that-when-we-both-know-I-don’t glare. “I might if you’d given the association tip before we started. Seems like you set a man up for failure doing it the other way around. Don’t you think, Dennis?”
The older man shook his head and waved between the two of them. “Leave me outta this.”
“You’re right, Owen. Giving the tip first is the smarter idea. I told you I’m out of practice working with clients,” Carly conceded. “Considering that, working with another instructor is a standing offer.”
“I might be easy, but it takes more than that to get rid of me.”
