Page 50
“Sera.”
Ronan stares out through the windscreen, not looking at me.
“I’ve always thought you’re pretty,” he mutters. “Maybe one day I’ll figure my shit out.”
I lean across and kiss his cheek.
“I know we’ll never be more than just friends,” I tell him. “And I’m good with that. It won’t change things.”
He turns his head, his smile genuine. “Does this mean I’ll never get to see you naked?”
I laugh, happy to pretend. “You show me yours, and I’ll show ya mine.”
“It’s a date.”
I climb out and wrap my arms around my middle, shivering.
The car pulls away, and two of our men swing the gate shut. Shay heads in my direction, black baseball cap shadowing his eyes and a cozy looking Sherpa on his back.
His face tells me everything before his mouth does. “Saint knows where ya were.”
I keep walking because the wind is like needles puncturing my skin. “For fuck’s sake.”
“He’s in the cabin cooling off.”
“I doubt Keira’s keeping him cool.”
Shay shirks out of his coat and sets it on my shoulders. “Rafe told me to bring ya straight in.”
“Rafe can wait.”
“Sera.”
“I’m going to see Fury.”
Shay looks at the dress, the heels and makes the wise decision not to argue. He knows I’d rather be with my horse than face up to Rafe's bad mood.
I slip my arms into the warm sleeves and head straight to the stables.
The knots in my chest unwind at the familiar smell of hay and horses.
Fury had been iron gray when my father brought him home for me, all thick neck, black mane, and bad temper.
Ironically, I’ve spent more years with Fury than I did my dad. He’s been there through it all.
I teeter into the tack room, hating the high heels more than ever, and kick them off with a groan.
My bare feet press onto the cold floor, sore and grateful. I find an old pair of boots near the bench, shove my feet into them, then grab a thick horse rug from the hook by the door.
The black dress looks ridiculous paired with work boots and a man's coat. It doesn’t bother me. The woman wearing this dress made a reckless mistake. Whereas the woman who lives in dirty boots and jeans, she threatens assholes with shotguns.
Fury lifts his head when I slide the bolt back, ears flicking forward, dark eyes calm and questioning.
Age has silvered him almost white, except for the darker shadows at his knees and the stubborn black still threaded through his thick mane.
He blows softly through his nose as I step inside, then he moves closer, heavy and sure on feathered legs, because he knows he’s my comfort.
“I did something stupid,” I whisper into his neck. “Something I can’t take back.”
