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“Nice horsey,” I grunt, hoisting the saddle on top of the pad.
Sparrow neighs loud enough to startle me, but instead of moving, I slam my eyes shut and chant, “Please don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”
I pop one eye open to see her black-tipped ears twitching and flicking curiously. A tuft of her raven-colored mane lies over her forehead, and once I’m positive she isn’t going to charge me, I brazenly reach out to touch the strands.
The tip of my pointer finger explores a swirl of short fur in the center of her long, speckled face, and the longer we study each other, the more comfortable I become.
Touching her velvet soft snout sprinkled with coarse whiskers, I tease, “I know a lady who can get rid of this ‘stache, if you’re interested.”
A hot, disapproving puff vibrates my palms, bringing a smile to my lips.
I give her neck a firm pat. “All right. Let’s get this thing secured so I can rub it in Marcus’s stupid face.”
The leather cinch dangles beneath her belly, and when I swipe for it, she prances out of reach.
“Hey, will you stop?” I scold as the troublemaker playfully nips my boots.
Tongue snaking out, I concentrate on the dragging strap while chasing the mare in a circle.
She halts instantly, releasing a boisterous snort when my head bumps straight into the side of her ass.
“You know, my face has been called many things,” Marcus muses from the other side of the stall, “but stupid is a first.”
I groan, rubbing the heel of my hand against my forehead. “What do you want, vamp?”
He helps himself into the stall, carrying a pail full of sweet pellets. “I was grabbing the spare toolbox when I heard you struggling.”
Heard as: I caught you talking to an animal like a crazy person.
The second I grab the cinch, Sparrow lurches forward to cram her face inside the bucket. The leather whips my palms on its way after her, and I glare at the culprit.
“Pellets are her favorite treat.” He smooths his palm along Sparrow’s twitching skin. “She’s much more agreeable when she’s eating.”
“Aren’t most females?” I ask offhandedly.
Wait, that was a bit too casual. And this vamp and I are not, and never will be, casual. But my insides turn all scrambly when his wicked mouth curls into a sly grin.
“Go ahead.” Relaxing against the wall, Marcus nods to the straps still dragging along the ground. “Show me what you’ve learned.”
It’s the way his voice dips, and that subtle up-tick of his brow, that makes my belly flutter. Just like it had when he’d thoroughly cleaned the same scratches now flaring to life beneath my shirt.
Choosing to ignore any sensation other than the hot burn of hatred, I quickly get to work readjusting the saddle.
This odd change in him doesn’t make any sense. He went on an alcohol- and drug-fueled rampage through the streets of LA, totaled his car, and was slapped with a court-ordered stint in rehab, yet he’s out here playing cowboy as if none of it ever happened.
Regardless of what the magazine is expecting from me, I’m dying to know what Marcus is hiding.
Rolling my hand down Sparrow’s stomach to let her know exactly where I’m at, I grab the thicker band off the ground. The skinnier cinch belt slides through the buckle as I wrap it a few times before moving to secure another strap around her front.
“How’s the ankle?” I ask once I’m finished.
Shoving off the wall, he swaggers toward me to inspect my work. “Good as new.”
I doubt that, but now I’m hyper-aware of every prick of energy zipping between us once he reaches my side. If he notices his hip brushing mine as he bends to check the buckle, he doesn’t let on.
Scratchy nibbling, followed by muffled crunching noises, fills the stall as Sparrow gingerly eats her feed.
And because I’m not totally blind, I might sneak one subtle peek at Marcus’s ass.
