Page 8
Oh. My. God.
And then I see it: a glint of silver in the sunlight. A piercing through his right nipple. Not a straight barbell like the one in his eyebrow, but circular. How did I miss that before? And who gave him permission to throw that into the mix? Tattoos, muscles, brooding bad-boy energy, and a nipple ring? It’s a wonder I don’t drop dead on the spot.
Right, this is too much for me. Needing a distraction, I spin on my heel and make a big show of inspecting his cottage.
When Aidan considered buying it a few years back, it was run-down, but it’s now neat and well cared for. Through the spotless French windows, I spy a warm rustic kitchen with wooden cabinets and a sturdy oak table.
“Your place is looking great,” I call over my shoulder. “Who did you hire to do the renovations?”
Grunt. Thwack. Apparently, he’s gone back to chopping wood. “Did it myself.”
Considering Robbie has worked in maintenance at the Glen Garve Resort for years, I suppose it’s no shock he’s skilled, but even so, the work he’s done here is downright impressive.
I let out a low whistle. “You’re good with your hands. I like that in a man.”
A sharp breath escapes his nose, not quite a laugh, but close enough to make me wonder if that was his way of suppressing one. Wow, am I getting somewhere with him? And yet, when I glance back, his expression is as cold as ever. Damn.
“I actually just bought a fixer-upper on Main Street.”
Genuine interest lights up those frosty eyes for half a second before his default blank expression slams back into place. “Oh aye?” It comes out almost grudgingly, like he can’t help but be curious even though he resents it. And honestly, I don’t know whether to feel triumphant or insulted that this—not me bending over and giving him an excellent view of my arse, but this—is what finally gets his attention.
“Aye. I’ll be doing it up, just like you did this place up.”
“You’ll be doing it up?”
“Yes.” I fire back my most saccharine smile. “I’ll be doing it up.”
“You experienced when it comes to DIY, then?” He leans casually against the axe handle.
“Well . . .” I wave a hand breezily. “I wouldn’t say experienced, exactly.” Total novice, more like. “But anything I don’t know, I’m sure I’ll pick up in no time. I’ve been bingeing videos from home-improvement gurus on social media.”
His lips twitch—just the barest hint of a smirk—as though he finds this deeply entertaining. “Right.”
“They all swear if you’ve got the will, you can build pretty much anything,” I add, as though last night’s drawer debacle didn’t nearly end me. Fake it till you make it, right?
Robbie releases a low huff of sound and shakes his head. “Well, good luck with that.”
His tone is dismissive enough to make my blood simmer. Before I can decide whether to give him a piece of my mind or swallow my pride like an adult, he nods towards Bracken, who’s now contentedly munching on grass—his grass.
“Your horse is finished its water. And I’ve got jobs to be getting on with.”
Its? Its? Bracken’s a her, obviously. Anyway, it’s a clear dismissal. He might as well have said, You’ve got what you came for, now off you trot. Literally.
Heat creeps up my neck, not from embarrassment but from sheer indignation. I grab my helmet and gather Bracken’s reins. Fine!
I swing myself gracefully into the saddle then nudge Bracken forwards without sparing Robbie another glance, even though every fibre of my body is screaming at me to steal one last ogle at those muscles gleaming in the sunlight.
My resolve crumbles when we’re almost past him. The faint smell of pine shavings reaches my nose, mixed with the salty tang of his skin, and before I can stop myself, I call brightly, “Cheers for the water!” And then, because apparently some part of me refuses to leave with my dignity intact, I add with a cheeky wink, “And the show!”
* * *
“There you go, girl. Go see your friends.” I give Bracken’s rump a light pat, and she trots past me into the field. Her coat gleams, fresh from a well-deserved rubdown. I latch the gate behind her and lean against it, watching her wander over to join the others under the shade of an old oak. She dips her head to graze, completely at ease.
Bannock Stables has always felt like a home away from home. When I was thirteen, the owner, Janice, struck a deal with me—free lessons or a trek in exchange for mucking out stalls and helping with the younger riders. It was hard work but I loved every second of it. Now that I’m back for good, we’ve struck up a similar arrangement, one that’ll work around my teaching schedule.
A sharp whinny cuts through the quiet. I glance across the yard and spot Janice standing by the gate to the indoor arena, peering inside with her arms folded.
“Hey, Janice!” I head over.
