Page 23 of Slow Burn

She bleats, and to my astonishment, Kenny Rogers bleats back. My mouth slides into a smile, and I stifle my amusement.

“See?” She turns and looks up at me, beaming with pride and satisfaction. “He says he’s your pet.”

“What are you, some animal psychic now?” I roll my eyes.

Lyla steps towards me and plucks Willow’s reins out of my hand. “No, that’s silly.” She leads Willow out the barn, her hips swaying as she walks in that hypnotizing way. “I prefer the term ‘goat whisperer’.”

All I can do is shake my head with a smile. It’s the smile of a person who knows they’re doomed, and have come to accept their fate.

I was reluctant to agree to a day spent with Lyla, because I’ve carefully curated a facade. I’ve made her–and everyone else–believe I don’t enjoy being around her.

But the longer she’s around me, she might start to realize that I don’t dislike her at all.

Chapter 11

Lyla

“Do you have one of those mounting blocks?” I ask Beck, looking up at the horse I’m supposed to just jump onto without any hesitation.

It should be easy. Foot in the stirrup, grab hold of the saddle horn and haul myself up. Except every time I lift my foot to stick my foot in the iron, Willow takes a step sideways and I stumble.

Beck is already seated on Bandit’s back, the shiny black horse and him regarding me like they’re getting antsy.

“We don’t offer kids pony rides here, so no,” Beck says, his voice gruff and impatient. He probably would have already been halfway to the other side of the property by now if it wasn’t for me.

I let out an exasperated groan. “Then tell your horse to stop moving every time I try to mount her.”

“Oh, so you’re a goat whisperer but not a horse whisperer?” Beck’s mouth tilts upward under his dark moustache, and I scowl back at him.

“Clearly not this horse.”

“Willow does what she wants, when she wants. I’ve learned to let her be who she wants to be.”

“You’re an ass,” I mutter under my breath.

“Horses don’t respond kindly to that attitude,” Beck says. “They respond better when you’re calm. Cool and collected. But I know that’s not your strong suit.”

My heart sinks in my chest at the confirmation of what I assumed all along. Beck has never respected how emotional I can be, how I wear my heart on my sleeve. But I won’t let him see how his comment affects me. Any reaction would cement his opinion of me. I opt instead to ignore it, as I try one more time to fix my foot on the stirrup.

Willow takes another abrupt step forward, making me lose my balance and sending me flailing backward. Turns out Beck’s horse is as much of an asshole as he is.

I collect myself and let out a huff of breath through pursed lips, and tie my hair back in a low ponytail. I point an index finger toward Willow. “This is it. I’m giving you one more chance and then we’re through.”

Here we go. Foot in the stirrup, grip the saddle horn, push up.

Strong hands grip my waist from behind, lifting me clean off the ground and supporting my weight as I haul myself up.

My sweatshirt slides up my waist as I reach up to the saddle, allowing Beck’s calloused fingers to graze over the exposed skin above the waistband of my leggings. The feeling of them sends a spark of electricity through my core, goosebumps blooming out over my skin from where they make contact.

As soon as I throw my leg over Willow’s hind quarters, Beck pulls his hands back as if I’ve burned him, and clears his throat.

“I could have done it myself,” I say, but we both know we would have been here until tomorrow morning.

He nods curtly, refusing to make eye contact as he walks back over to Bandit and mounts the horse with ease. Bandit has to be at least three hands taller than Willow, but Beck’s strong forearms ripple as he pulls himself into the saddle.

He clicks his tongue, and tugs the reins over Bandit’s neck, turning him around and walking him away from the barn toward the pasture. I attempt to do the same with Willow, but she barely budges.

I give her sides a squeeze with my thighs. Nothing.