Page 104 of Blacklist

Sterling is afraid of horses. He’s not going to admit that, but I can see it. He watches with wary eyes as I check the saddles one more time. I wonder if his second thoughts are going to win out. They’re written all over his face. It’s a little funny. Adorable even.

Big, bad Sterling Ford has met his match.

“You ready?” I ask him.

“Sure.” But he doesn’t move, he just stands there with his hands in his pockets.

“We don’t have to go riding,” I say. “We can do something else. Maybe this needs to be a gradual introduction. You’ve seen the horse. Maybe you can pet him and then you can sit on him—”

He cuts me off mid-suggestion. “I said I was sure.”

“Look, that’s how I started. Slowly,” I tell him.

“And how old were you?” he asks. My mouth clamps shut and he groans. “Exactly. I’m not a kid. I can handle myself.”

“Okay, well, come over here then.” I do my best to not insult his masculinity as he attempts to climb onto the horse’s back. Once he manages to get on with his feet in the stirrups, he looks even more uncertain. “You okay up there?”

“Fine,” he says through gritted teeth. “Let’s ride.”

“Let me show you a few things first. This is Ember and he’s pretty chill.” I walk him through the harness and explain the bit. He does a good job of listening and glowering simultaneously.

“What’s your horse’s name?” He asks, clutching the reins tightly.

“Buttercup,” I say. I glare at him when he laughs. “I was twelve when I got her!”

“No judgment.” His eyes say he is, in fact, judging me.

I drop a paper sack into my saddle bag and mount Buttercup. With a little encouragement we begin to walk the horses. Sterling settles quickly, looking a bit more at ease, so I increase my pace. Ember, who started life as a child’s training horse—a fact I kept to myself— follows my lead.

Even now, despite his scowl, being with Sterling feels natural. Right. Our relationship is moving from one pace to the next smoothly. I only hope it survives me taking him horseback riding.

The land on the rest of the estate is a mix of rolling hills and valleys. I fall into a trot beside him and we ride quietly until we can no longer see the stables or the rest of Windfall. After a few more minutes, we reach my favorite spot. It’s mostly an open field, too far from the house to be tended. There’s no grass, just a clover field and thousands of yellow wildflowers growing freely. Slowing Buttercup, I dismount and grab her reins. Sterling won’t let me help him down. I pretend to focus intensely on tying the reins to a tree and not on his awkward descent.

“What do you think?” I ask, pulling a blanket out of Buttercup’s saddle bag and spreading it on the ground.

“I’d make a shitty cowboy,” he says truthfully.

I laugh before I can stop myself, covering my mouth when I realize that I actually am laughing at the idea of him as a cowboy and not his joke. But Sterling isn’t angry. He’s watching me with strange eyes I can’t quite read. Then he kisses me.

I’m beginning to anticipate these sudden outbursts of affection, even if I don’t know what I do to deserve them. If I did, I might spend all my time triggering this reaction, because kissing Sterling is all I want to do. Well, that and other things, even if we haven’t gotten there yet.

When he pulls away, his hand stays on the back of my neck and his eyes blaze. I swear he could burn me alive just looking at me like that. I force myself to turn away before he does. Pulling the paper bag out, I hold it up. “It’s starting to get chilly. I figured it might be our last chance for a picnic.”

“A picnic?” he repeats.

I don’t know if it’s a test or if he just thinks this is dumb. I default to the latter as a means of self preservation. “Food. Blanket. Eating outside. Having fun.”

“I know what a picnic is.” He snatches the bag from my hand and drops onto the blanket.

“Well, you acted like I was speaking in tongues,” I complain. So he does think this is stupid. Maybe I’m trying too hard to see Sterling as some romantic figure like Mr. Darcy or Heathcliff.

He reaches up and pulls me into his lap. “Don’t be mad, Lucky.”

I can’t help pouting. Not if he’s going to respond to it. “You were teasing me.”

“I’ll tell you a secret.” He tucks my hair behind my ear and whispers, “I’ve never been on a picnic. That’s why I was surprised.”

“You’ve…what?” I’ve done it again. I’m losing count of the number of times I’ve stuck my foot in my mouth with him.