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Remi held her breath.
The bell rang and the horses exploded onto the track in a furor of pounding hooves and streaming colors. The crowd around them cheered and clapped and roared. She and Merrick watched the race in silence.
After two minutes and a mile and a half had passed, Shenanigans of Arden Farms was declared the unofficial winner. She should have been happy that their champion filly had won the race. A nice purse, a sweet victory, another trophy in the trophy room…
“You don’t look happy, Precious,” Merrick said and put two fingers on either side of her face, forcing her lips into a smile. She gave him the most glaring of death glares. “Your little pony won her race. Smile like you mean it.”
The outrider led Mike and Shenanigans on a victory lap.
“Let’s go,” she said.
“Thank God,” Merrick said as they stood up. “I’m starting to sweat. It’s October. I don’t let myself sweat in October.”
She grabbed her things, and Merrick let her out into the aisle. He followed behind her as she strode to the rails.
“Have you noticed anything weird?” she asked him.
“Yes. Definitely. What the hell does that woman have on top of her head? A sailboat?” He pointed at a lady walking past their section. “Ahoy there!” he shouted at the woman in the white hat with the voluminous veil. “No one can see over your damn schooner! Full steam ahead!”
“Merrick, please behave yourself.”
“Why? You’re in the cheap seats. Nobody knows that YOU’RE REMI MONTGOMERY AND YOUR FAMILY OWNS SHENANIGANS, THE WINNING HORSE.” Merrick said that last sentence so loudly everyone in a twenty-yard radius heard him. Of course they did.
“And you wonder why I won’t ever sleep with you,” she whispered to him.
“AND YOU AND I AREN’T SLEEPING TOGETHER,” Merrick said, still in his unnecessarily booming voice. Everyone in the grandstands stared at them as they walked down to the viewing area in front of the track.
“Remind me why I hired you again.” Remi slid her bag over her shoulder as they headed to the clubhouse.
“Because I don’t give a fuck about horse-racing. Also I’m brilliant and you find me the sexiest man alive.”
“Two out of three ain’t bad. Come here, I want to show you something,” she said, pausing at the track to watch the jockey weigh-in. The results of the race wouldn’t be official until the jockeys were weighed.
“It’s about time. But let’s find a stall so we can have some privacy for our first time. I want it to be as awkward and uncomfortable as possible for the both of us.”
She opened her bag and handed him a magazine.
“Wow,” Merrick said, a word she’d never heard pass his lips before. Merrick was not easily impressed. “You don’t see horses on the cover of Sports Illustrated very often. Then again, I only subscribe for the swimsuit issue.”
Remi stood next to him as they stared at the cover—Shenanigans, her family’s chestnut filly, and Hijinks, the Capital Hills colt, barreled down the center of the Verona Downs track straight at the camera. The picture had been snapped in the final stretch of the Lexington Stakes—a glorious action shot of two beautiful beasts running their guts out.
“Look at that headline—The New Civil War—Hijinks Versus Shenanigans in the horse racing rivalry of the century,” Remi read aloud, trying not to roll her eyes at the hyperbole.
“That’ll sell some t-shirts.” Merrick handed her the magazine.
“This article is ridiculous,” Remi said, flipping through the pages. “It’s all about the vicious rivalry between Arden Farms and Capital Hills—two of the oldest Kentucky horse farms. Everyone’s picking a side—Team Shenanigans versus Team Hijinks.”
“I’m still Team Edward.”
“I saw a fight today right by the rails. It was between two guys, one wearing an Arden shirt, the other guy in a Capital Hills shirt. After this feature, the entire racing world will be betting on Shenanigans and Hijinks now. They’re even selling Hijinks and Shenanigans Beanie Babies.”
“Now that’s just sick.”
“Tell me about it. These horses are turning into money trees.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Shenanigans is your family’s horse,” he reminded her. “More notoriety, better attendance, better press, more money, more money for me, your faithful assistant who deserves a raise. Should I write this down for you?”
“Write this down for me,” she said, handing Merrick a pen and her journal. “One hundred million and two hundred million. Got it?”
