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By some miracle, Whiskey wheels and spins away, narrowly avoiding another collision with the horse or trampling Esther. I inscribe Mariano’s horse’s name on my shuddering heart: Whiskey, who I will forever love with a blazing eternal gratitude reserved only for the best of horses, for saving my man.
But my relief is short-lived. Because Esther—Esther Fucking Fitzwilliam, best damned polo player in the world—is lying unmoving on the grass. And it’s my fault.
“Good god.” Pippa pulls up beside me breathing the words I’m thinking, all of us riveted on Esther’s still form, the crowd united in silent dread and prayer.
I am dumbstruck, unable to move or think or feel much of anything beyond prayer:Do not let her die. Do not. I beg.
“Fuck!” The word explodes from Esther, loud enough that even the spectators in the tent can hear, and an involuntary chuckle of relief and release goes up from the crowd. It’s Mariano’s face I’m watching, the hint of a smile that pulls at his lips as Esther curses.
“Don’t move.”
But Esther doesn’t listen and as she raises her left arm into the air—the universal equestrian signal forI’m alive—as cheers and applause spontaneously burst from the spectators’ tent. Even so, I hear the next thing she says to Mariano. “What the hell happened?”
“You had a fall. You were—but that is no matter. You are okay,sí? You will survive to beat me. But on another day, I think.” This man. He somehow pulls a laugh from Esther as she struggles to sit.
“All good! Nothing more than a bump on the old noggin.” She lets Mariano steady her as she stands. “Bring me my damned horse.”
The crowd explodes, cheers raining down on us from all sides as Esther hands me back my mallet, salutes me, and takes to the field.
The rest of the chukka’s a blur, me willing myself not to fall into doubt, my horse taking me wherever I will her to go. There’s a healing that happens when you ride, and I let it rise up through the sound of beating hooves, grunts of exertion, and the rhythmic reverberation of blowing horses until the sight of Esther falling isn’t front and center.
Instead, it’s me, Mariano, and the pitch, racing for the goal.
For all our passion, it’s afriendlymatch, so we dismount together and allow the spectators to swarm the field, all of them chatting about Esther’s save and how lucky she is.
“No luck about it.” I wouldn’t normally speak up in a crowd this big, but it has to be said. “What you saw, ladies and gentlemen, was passion in action.”
The applause is raucous, followed with much back slapping and hand shaking.
Esther pulls me to one side, whispering. “Thank you, my dear. You pulled up like a pro.Wepulled that save out of the hat—you and me! I won’t forget it.”
Mariano collects Mr. Wiggins from Aunt Dottie and brings him to me, eager and panting and wanting to give me kisses. The dog, you fool, not the man, though if I let him, he would. In front of all. No shame. No hiding. Me and Mariano, k.i.s.s.i.n.g. up a tree, by a well, on the polo field. It’s all going to happen. We will make it so.
“You are the best of us, Lolly. You ride like the wind. No fear. I am so proud of you.”
When he comes to Miss P’s side and opens his arms to me, I’m ready. I let him pull me from my horse’s back and fold me into his arms where we cradle the dog between us.This man.What is this man? This man, Mariano,sees me.This man, who somehow knows how to love me best of all, better than anyone ever has. This man is mine. And I his.
Even Mr. Wiggins approves.
EPILOGUE
One Year Later
Lolly and Mariano. Casa de Arias. Córdoba, Argentina.
The red petals riot on the ceibo tree, cascading down the branches and kissing the lush grass below. The table is set for thirty, dishes stacked in an alternating pattern: a meat dish, a veggie dish, “analgo que encanta a Mariano”a something-that-Mariano-loves dish. His mama—petite and lovely, her hair twisted up on her head and her apron slung over her shoulder—is larger than life and all about the food! and drink! and¡más! ¡más! ¡más!gliding between the kitchen and the arbor where the feast is to take place.
I love her. I particularly love how much she loves her son. I mean, I—Charlotte Lolly Katherine Arias (squee-that’s-me!) Benoit—know he’s god’s gift, but apparently there were people before me who thought the sun shone from his very pert ass.
His folks couldn’t come to the wedding at The Mansion. His papá’s surgeon forbade him to fly, even though Mr. Arias’ heart bypass was a rousing success. This feast is our way of drawing everyone into the celebration of our love. Even after a year, I can barely stand to be apart from Mariano for more than a minute, and every look he shoots my way makes my stomach flip and my knees wibble.
Turns out, I’m the luckiest woman in the world. He worships the ground I walk on—and my calves and thighs and warm, wet, wanting. He particularly likes to worship at that nook and cranny. And who am I to stop him? His tongue on my clit is only the beginning of what he does to make me scream and writhe and beg.Look away, Lolly. You are the hostess. There are guests to tend to. You can run your hands over him, and his over you, when the sun goes down and everyone is sated and soused and not paying attention to the two of you.
Deep breath. And on we go.
My mother’s safely wedged in a corner with Juliette, the two of them plotting their next move for world domination, no doubt. TheGolden Horseshoeshave all made their way to Córdoba for the fall (spring in the Southern Hemisphere) polo season, though it has to have cost them a small fortune to get here. Mick Anderson keeps trying to get Alicia to flirt back, but my bestie knows better than that, I’ve told her about his reputation as a treasure-hunting gigolo.
Pippa snags my sleeve. “Got a minute, darling? I have news for you and the hubster.”
